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A 


BOOK OF COUNTRY CLOUDS AND 


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Descriptions of Ni'w Eng 


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BOSTON 




LEE AND SHEPARD 



A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 




'^ 



TEXT AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY CLIFTON JOHNSON 



- I 



'il^-( 



BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD 
PUBLISHERS MDCCCXCVn 



^ o A 



COPVRU.HT, lSg6, BY 

CLIFTON JOHNSON 



A BOOK OF COUNTRY' 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



TVI'Or.KAI-HY BY C. J. I'ETEKS & SON 
TKKSSWOKK BY KOCKWKLI. S: ClUKCHIl.L 



MB^i^ 



CONTENTS 



Introduction 

I. Winter Lifk in Nfav England 

ir. A Winter Ridk . 

III. ToWN-MKETINf; 

I\'. How Sprinc, Comes 

V. Back-door Notes 

\l. Financiering on a Small Fai 

\II. The Vacation Counikv 

\III. A Hill-Town Sabbath 

IX. Sunday Afternoon . 

X. A Christian Endeavor Meeti 

XI. The Minister 

XII. A Chapter of Sentiment. 

XIII. Deserted Homes .... 

XIV. The Farm Day by Day . 



15 
31 

46 
60 
77 
85 
93 
loS 

118 

>3(^ 
146 
160 

173 
197 



«„ :MMi- 







LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

The Coitiitry Store . . . Frfl)tlisf>it'ic 

Tabic of Coii/rii/s. Ilcadpitti' . . 7 

Introduction. Headpiece . ... 13 
Winter Life in Xe'M England. 

dieadpiece 15 

Winter among the Hills .... 16 

An Early Snoio 18 

Cold Weather 20 

Saunng lee 21 

U'i titer Work on the J\vi<i . . . 23 

Eishin^; through the Ice .... 25 

Breaking out the I\oad .... 26 

Turning out through the I-ields . 28 

The Horse Sheds on .Sunday . . 29 

A Winter J\'i<le. Headpiece . . 31 

A Hilltop Village 33 

Sharpening His A.xe 35 

Sau>in<' Wood 38 



After a .Storm 41 

(letting a Team through the I^rift, 44 

Toion Meeting. Headpiece ... 46 

At the Toi.<n //all 47 

A Eerry Man 49 

7Vie /■'erry Tanding ^2 

A Eire on the edge of the Woods . 54 

Old driends 55 

//('7<' .Spring comes. /leadpiece . 60 
.Spring among the Xen' England 

J/ills 61 

./ A/arch /\'oad7oay 63 

.7 1/iglnoay in Time of Elood . . 65 

Pic/ling up Hoodicood .... 66 

Springtime 68 

The Spring Ereshet 71 

.'Ifter Elood Trash 73 

W/iipping out a Eire 74 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



lO 



Washing up for niinur . 
Bcnk-Door Notes. IhadpUiC 

Back-Door Pels 

J-Wdiiig Ihc llnis .... 

'I'hc Fiiriii Colt 

J'hhnh'icri iii^' on a Small Farm 

Ihailpio,o .... 
His oioii J/ousokoipcr . 
U'oi-l-ing 07'i'r Butter . 
y'rudiiii;- '.oitli the Ihitehei 
Somethiui^ ;^ood Cookime; . 
Boilinx- the Clothes for the 1 1 'a 

H'cishiiii;' Day 

Monday 

The ]'aeatioii Country. Ileiulpi 

Fish ill;.:; 

A Country Road-iOay . 

The lilaeksmith . . . 

.1)1 iK\ Team 

Wiishuv.; the Dishes . 

Tetheriui;- the Calf . . 

7'he ICell-sioeep at the /.'aek Door 

Making Soft Soaf 

.•/ //ill-To:on Sal'l-ath. l/eaclfieet 
Cetting Ready to Flo ugh . . . 

Ploughing 

Ilarro-oing 

Planting Corn 

Sunday .Ifteriioon . l/eadpieee 
The News 



75 
77 
7'^ 
79 
82 

S5 
86 

87 
88 
89 
90 

91 

92 

93 
94 
95 
98 

99 

lOI 

102 

103 
105 
108 
109 
1 1 1 
114 

115 
118 
119 



CAGE 

./ Drink at the End of the A'oio . 121 

.Uending the Fire 123 

Peeling Potatoes for Dinner. . . 125 

Planting loith a .Maehine . . . 126 

Paring .-Ipples 127 

.Mo-ioing the Home Lot . . . . 130 

Sunday .Ifternoon 134 

./ Christian I'.inleaz'or Meeting. 

Headpieee 136 

Opening the Hay 137 

Haying Time 139 

Lietting in a Load after Supper . 142 

l-'romthe L lay fell 144 

'The ALinister. LLeailpieee . . . \j^h 

Cutting l\ye 147 

Waiting 151 

L'itehing do:on LLay for the Coios . 153 

Getting Corn for the Silo . . . 155 

J-illing the Silo 157 

./ Chapter (if .Sentiment. Head- 
pieee 160 

.-/ Talk 7vith the Hired (iirl . . 161 

.lutuiiin 16^ 

'The Came of Cheekers .... 165 

/// the J'asture 167 

'Laeking' a Bedquilt 169 

The Milage Burying-Croiind . . 171 

Deserted Homes. Headpieee . . 173 

/;/ a Sheep Pasture 175 

./ Pienie 177 



1 1 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 





PAf.E 


Looking at his Cuctiiiibcrs . 


• 179 


Ilitslciiig Corn 


. 181 


Cows ill (he Barnyard . 


. 183 


A Feed for ihe Sheep . . . 


. 185 


A Deserted Home .... 


. 187 


ricking Apples 


• 191 


A Sniniiier Evening . . . . 


• 193 


The Faryn Day by Day. Ileadp 


ieee 197 



Topping Onions 199 

One of the OU Valley Towns . 203 

Cutting Corn 205 

The Geese 207 

Training the Dog 209 

In the Dooryard 211 

The End 213 





INTRODUCTION 



"Plir^ "Clouds and Sunshine" wliich make u]) tliis book are 
those of life rather than tliose of nature. The book is, 
first of all, about the farmer and his wavs, about \illage life 
and character. What countr)- life really is, I ha\"e tried to make 
clear, with the use of rose-colored spectacles. On the other hand, 
I have no wish to lay undue stress on the shadows. Country life 
has its drawbacks ; yet, to mv feeling', a pleasant New I-^ngland 
village, not too far removed from a large town and the railroad, is 
the best dwelling-place in the world. New England has a charm 
of variety that few other regions of our country can rival. It 
has a virile indiA'iduality that its own children can never forget. 
One grow^s to love its rough hills and wooded mountain ridges, 
the singing of its streams, its summer heats, its winter storms, 
even ; and no amount of pros]')erit}' and honor elsewhere can 
entirely compensate for this loss. 

I spoke of a country village as being the ideal home. A'ou 
cannot, however, get its aroma and its finer pleasures by mov- 
ing into such a \'illage, — not even if }'ou build a mansion there. 
You must yourself be simple, must do without the mansion, and 



INTRODUCTION 

14 

love a home of Inimblc comfort better, must live the country 
Hfe. I'ride or st}le or artificiahty wiU never get at the heart 
of that hfe, and will miss much of the country sweetness. 

The chapters, " Winter I jfe in New luigland," and " The 
h'arm iJav by Day," were first published in The Outlook ; "How 
Spring" Comes," and "A Hill-Town Sabbath," a}i]:)eared in llic 
Co)ign'gatio)ialist : " Deserted Homes " appeared in The Cosnio- 
politcnt Magazine. 




WINTER LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND 



W/IIAT the New England summer is, many visitors from tlie 
outside world well know. Very few outsiders, however, 
know by experience very much about the New England winter. 
Rarely, too, has it been pictured, except somewhat romantically 
from the artist's imagination or memory. Yet it is to be doubted 
if at any season New England is more beautiful. The contour of 
every hill and mountain sloj^e lies exjwsed, and at no other time 
can one so clearly comprehend the real nature of the country. 
I'A'crywhere is the wide expanse of the snow, broken at frequent 
intervals by patches of woodland with their gra\' masses of tree- 
trunks, and their bare twigs making a delicate tracery against the 
sky. In the outlooks from the highlands, or across the wide \'al- 
levs, the landscape melts in the distance into mellow blues, and 
the tints of the winter skies are of unequalled brilliance; while 
at night the stars glitter and sparkle through an air of crystalline 
charms. 

Then there are mornings when the frost takes possession of 
the land, and every tree-twig and every sprig of grass that shows 
above the snow has a white coating. The sun shines on a world 



I. WINTER LIFE « 
IN NEW Ex\ GLAND 



i6 



of dreams, and I doubt it any tro|)ic land could rival the enchant- 
ment and radiance of such a mornini;-. 

Often the higher ridges of the hills are crowned with the 
solemn green masses of a pine or s])ruce wood, as tlark and stiff 




WiNTEK Among the Hii.ls 



as nearl)' all the i"est of the world is light and delicate. In j^laces 
the rocks lift dark shouklers to l:)reak the whiteness ; and along 
the roads, where habitations are near, are black lines of stone 
wall. Then there are the frec|uent weather-beaten and unpainted 
old houses and out-buildings, that emphasize by their gray gloom 
the light tones which ai'e general. This type of house is most 
often found in the lonclv outhdng districts. In the villages 
nearly all the houses are painted white. It makes an odd im- 
jiression to come on a little \illage of white houses in this win- 
ter world. 'J'hey differ so slighth' from the surrounding snowhelds 



J - • « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

that the impression is quite i;h()stly. To look down on some wide 
expanse of country from a hillto}), and sec it all _i;iven over to the 
drifted snows, gives the feeling that only a miracle can ever bring 
back the greens of spring and summer. Among the tumbled 
ridges of the hills the occasional lonely little farms seem entirely 
lost, and the forsakenness of the region is appalling. 

I suppose the majority of New Englanders take winter as a 
matter of course ; and yet I have been told by a Yankee, who 
gathered his wisdom by years oi experience as a peddler, that 
many of them wasted half their lives in wishing it was not such 
abominably cold weather. 

When, in autumn, the fields turn brown, and the leaves fall, and 
the frosty nights begin to hint at the coming cold, few look for- 
ward to the approaching winter with feelings of pleasure. The 
thought of it brings a shiver ; and the imagined delight of a trip 
South, or to California, pictures itself in many minds. But such 
trips belong to the realm of the impossible, though I do know of a 
single case where a man of moderate means has one farm among 
the Massachusetts hills and another in Florida. To the latter the 
farmer and his wife go each year at the approach of cold weather, 
and return in the spring. When they leave the one place or the 
other they find some one who is willing to live on the vacant farm, 
and look after it in consideration of a free rental, liut very likely 
this man is the only one of his kind in all New P^ngland. 

A great many people prepare for winter by banking up their 
houses with leaves or cornstalks held in j^lace by boards staked 
against them. Some use sods for this banking. On the most 
exposed sides of the house double windows are fastened, and 
storm-doors are put on at the main entrances. There is a gen- 
eral search for cracks to be stopped, and a good deal of tinkering 
is done about the out-buildings to make things snug for the hens 
and cattle. 

As far as the cold is concerned, winter is most disturbing in 



I. WINTER LIKE « 
IN NEW ENGLAND 



the shiver awakened by its apyproach. Mentally and constitution- 
ally one soon i^ets adjusted to it, and finds the winter occupations, 




An Early Snow 



the crisp air and the brilliant sunshine, or the white whirl of the 
storms, in many ways enjoyable. Besides, it no sooner settles 
down to really cold weather than we begin to look forward to 
spring, and that gives a warmth which nothing else can. 

A New h^nglander who has attained distinction in his par- 
ticular calling- has sometimes told mc that when he and his 
brothers were little fellows, and slei^t in the room umler the roof 
in the L, the snows would sift in at the cracks in the winter 
storms; and when they ran down stairs in the morning, they left 
behind them the tracks of their bare feet in the little drifts. 
Such stories seem by right to belong to the days of the first 



jQ ««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

settlers ; but wlieii you drive alonp^ the crooked New England 
roadways next summer, notice the houses. There are some, yes, 
a good many, which seem not to ha\e l)een shingled for an age. 
The shingles curl up with brittle decay, and iu })laces have dropped 
away altogether. Such a roof every storm must penetrate. Notice 
the windows of the more shabby houses. You can count many 
broken panes. Some are stuffed out with rags or an old hat. 
Some have been stopped with shingles or boards nailed on. 
Some are not stopped at all. \\\ the heavier rains, there are prob- 
ably pots and pans set about under the leaks. In winter, there 
is a cleaning up after each snowstorm. I do not mean that such 
houses are the rule, but only that such do exist in greater num- 
bers than the casual observer would suspect. The typical house 
of the New England country is the white-painted building of a 
story and a half or two stories, with green blinds, and a piazza, 
and possibly a bay-window. It is kept in fair repair, and in ordi- 
nary weather is quite comfortable. 

Perhaps the hardest thing the inhabitants have to do in a New 
England winter is to get up in the morning. The air of the sleep- 
ing-rooms is almost as keen as that of outdoors. The window- 
panes are blurred with frost. Every breath of the sleepers makes 
a visible cloud of vapor. The bed is comfortable enough. The 
feather-bed, beneath, half envelops one, and above are blanket after 
blanket, and quilt on quilt. Jack Frost would have fo be a much 
sharper fellow than he is to penetrate that mass. But to make up 
one's mind to step out from this warm nest is a serious matter. 
The older members of the family get up from a. sense of responsi- 
bility and the force of habit. The younger members get up in 
response to calls from the foot of the stairs, because they have to. 

In towns near railroads the majority of farmers burn coal in 
the sitting-room stove, and the fire is kept going all winter. The 
man who depends on wood usually has a sitting-room stove large 
enough to hold some very sizable "chunks;" and these knotty 



T. WINTER l.IKK « 
IN NEW ENGLAND 



20 



lumps of unsplitablc wood, put in the last thing in the evening, are 
still burning the next morning. Yet the fire is very apt to burn 
low by the time Mr. Farmer arises, and he finds the kitchen, at 
least, full of cold ; and we can imagine him moving shiveringly 
about there until he has the fire started. It may be it is Mrs. 
Farmer who kindles the fire, and has to shiver in the cold kitchen ; 
but we will give Mr. r\armer the credit for being more gallant 
than to allow that, usually. 

During the coldest weather it is no easy matter to keep the 
house warm, even in the daytime; and in spite of the old overcoats 
laid down to keep the sharp outer air from entering under the 
doors, the wind and the frost are persistent, and they come in at 
every crack ; and some of the houses are so decrepit with age, or 
lack of care, that it would be no wonder if at times the inmates 




Cold Weather 



actually suffered. Vet days of really bitter cold are the exception, 
not the rule ; and by keeping the stoves crammed with wood, the 
living-rooms are commonly comfortable, even on such days. To 



21 



• •A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



be sure, there will be a chilliness apparent along the walls and 
in the corners ; and in really keen weather it is imi)ossible to keep 
a room warm on the windy side of the house. The north-west 
gales will blow through anything. In large houses, with the stove 
rooms on the south 
side, keeping warm is 
less difficult. Prob- 
ably much of the 
time a country sit- 
ting-room is too 
warm, rather than 
too cold. The inhab- 
itants feel obliged to 
have a contrast with 
the frost outside, and 
in many farmhouses 
the air in the little 
sitting-room is kept 
fairly baked. The 
inmates would think 
themselves seriously 
chilly in a coal-fire 
temperature of sev- 
enty degrees. A wood fire in a sheet-iron stove sends out a truly 
blistering heat if it is attended to ; but if continuous attention 
is not given, it fluctuates. It may amount to about the same 
as being cooked in an oven one half-hour ; and inside of the 
next half-hour the fire goes down till the cold creeps in at the 
cracks, and you begin to shiver. That reminds you to put 
some wood in the stove, and set the cooking process in opera- 
tion again. 

The New England winter is felt most in those households where 
the stock of sawed wood is allowed to run low, and the "women 




I. WINTKR LIFE « -,-, 

IN NEW ENGLAND 

folks " are obliged to resort to constant appeal to the men to get 
enough to keep the fires going, or are compelled to saw it them- 
selves. Take a real country town right through, and there are a 
good many farmers who do not keep up their wood supply as they 
should, and some of them are short of wood the year around. 
This state of affairs is called by the more forehanded neighbors 
" shiftlessness." Sometimes there is not only a lack of sawed 
wood, but the whole woodpile is allowed to get depleted almost to 
the last stick. The farmer is then obliged to resort to the woods 
for a new supply ; and the housewife has to burn green wood, 
which is her especial detestation. She can only make the best 
of it ; and that best is to always keep a supply of green sticks 
under the stove or in the o\'en drying, while they await their 
turn to become a part of the fire. The drying wood gives the 
room a peculiar and not unpleasant odor. 

Winter woik is not so arduous or long continued as that of 
other seasons of the year. Aside from the regular work of look- 
ing after the stock and odd jobs of tinkering and tool-mending 
about his premises, the farmer's chief concern is his woodpile. If 
he has a good deal of woodland, chopping and logging form an 
important feature of the winter. If he has little, he often hires 
himself out to those who want help in the woods. 

The best parts of the trees which make good timber are hauled 
away as logs t(j the sawmills, and anything that will serve for 
railroad ties or telegraph poles is likewise reserved. Trees that 
ha\'e no timber value, and the tops of those that have, are cut into 
four-foot lengths, split if necessary, and piled up readv to be 
sledded off. It is the method, usually, to cut the particular 
patch of forest selected for work clear of all standing wood 
that has any value for sawmill oi' burning purposes. Spring finds 
the land bare, sa\'e for the brush-heaps, a few saplings, and an 
occasional gaunt and decayed old trunk still ujiright. The moun- 
tain sides and the rocky hills and hollows are the chief homes 



25 



««A HOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



of the forests ; but the willows and jxiplars along the river-banks 
are sometimes a source of woodpile supply. 

In some towns are shops where tobacco-sorting or broom-tving 
has a place among winter industries. Such sho])s are famous 




Fishing through the Ice 



lounging-places ; and the affairs of the town, State, and nation, and 
in particular those of the neighbors, are settled there daily. The 
loungers and workers have among them often very clever mimics, 
who can take off anybody and anything ; and for picturesqueness 
and quaint Yankee humor their talk at best is unequalled. 

Where there is proximity to ponds or large streams, the farm- 
ers have little ice-houses back of their homes which must be filled. 
Some morning the oxen, or the horses, are hitched to the long 
sled ; and with saws, poles, and grappling-irons, the men-folks start 
for the ice. It is sloppy work ; but there are chances of diversify- 



I. WINTER LIFE « 
IN NEW ENGLAND 



26 



ini; it 1)V takini;" along fishing-tackle, and establishing a skirmish- 
line of fish-holes in the neighborhood. 

Winter is a time of increased social activity. There are more 
"doings" at the chui-ch ; the singing-school starts the first week 
of December at the l\)wn Hall ; and the Chautauqua Club gathers 
in turn at the members" houses e\ery Friday evening. Perhaps 
the \illagers start a lyceum at the schoolhouse, and speak i)ieces, 
sing songs, have dialogues, and debate, "Which is the most im- 
portant animal, the cat or the dog.''" and other important ques- 
tions. The chief object of the lyceums is the having a lot of fun ; 
and what is sought in debate is not culture, or disjjlay of one's 
powers as an orator, or the solution of great questions, but amuse- 




'reaking Ott the Road 



ment. Culture, oratory, etc., come in incidentally; but the serious 
old-time lyceum, which discussed regularly great national and moral 
cjuestions, is not to be found in many regions to-day. l^ut the cat- 



2 7 ««A liOOK OF COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

and-dog debate, or the discussion of such topics as " Which is the 
most destructive element, fire or water?" and "Which does it 
cost the most to dress, a man or a woman?" are not without 
their virtues ; for they at least stir thought and furnish health- 
ful amusement. 

For the children there are sliding and skating ; and some youth, 
about this time, suggests the wild scheme of clubbing together 
and hiring an omnibus for a grand sleighride of all the young 
people. Some fine evening they all pile into the long sleigh, and 
drive off behind the four horses with their jingling bells, for 
ten or twelve miles, and have a turkey supper at midnight at 
a tavern. Afterward they may have a dance. Not always, for 
dancing is considered a doubtful amusement by many country 
families ; and, indeed, in the country dances the company is not 
always a choice one, nor the hours seasonable, and if the older 
members of the family object to having their sons and daughters 
concerned in them, they are not altogether without good reason 
for so objecting. 

One winter task is that of breaking out the roads after the 
heavy storms. In the lowlands this is only an occasional neces- 
sity. But among the hills nearly every storm blocks the roads. 
Thaws in the uplands are infrequent ; and snow ])iles on snow, and 
a drift forms in the lee of every stone wall and hummock. Many 
roads, or parts of them, are entirely abandoned; and a "winter 
road " is made through the woods or across the open fields. Even 
a light snow, if it is dry and accompanied by wind, will fill the 
exposed roads, and heap up the drifts with astonishing rapidity. 

The breaking-out process is accomplished by hitching a pair 
of horses to the front bob of a sled, at one side of which is fas- 
tened a plough. Two men are needed to engineer the contri- 
vance, — one as drix'cr, one as plough-holder. When a drift is 
encountered through which the team cannot struggle, the men 
resort to shovelling. It is a rough-hewed track that the plough 



I. WINTER LIFE • 
IN NEW ENGLAND 



28 



leaves behind, and, nntil travel has smoothed it, not a very com- 
fortable one to travel over. 

Amonij^ the hills, only the high schools hold winter sessions. 




^ jS^ ^^^^1^1 



Turning out ihrough the Fields 



The scholars of the primary schools live so far away, as a rule, 
that it would be a real hardship for them to attempt to get to 
school regularly through the snows. The big boys, who a genera- 
tion or two ago used to come in every winter to the little district 
schoolhouses, now have a high school open to them. It is very 
apparent that these b()}'s are the sons of their fathers, for they 
worry the high-school teachers very much as their ancestors used 
to worry the teachers of the district schools. Display of smart- 



29 



• « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



ness and insubordination is still altogether too common in New 
England schools. 

Aside from the hilly and mountainous regions, the country 
schools all have their regular winter term, that begins the first 
week in December. Soon alter eight o'clock each school-day 
morning the children tie up their ears, put on their cloaks and 
mittens and overshoes, and, with their sleds dragging behind, go 
stubbing along through the snow toward the schoolhouse. Those 




The HoRsE-siiiiDs on Sunday 



who come from more than half a mile have in hand their tin 
dinner-pails ; and, on stormy days, even the child that lives just 
across the road feels abused if it cannot carry its dinner. 

The more advanced children of the outlying districts of a town 



I. WINTER LIFE « 
IN NEW ENGLAND 



have a long ride before them each winter morning to the academy 
at the Centre, a distance of perhaps three or four miles. They 
go in all kinds of weather. Neither storm nor cold can keep them 
at home. It sends a sympathetic shiver through one to look out 
and see them dri\-e jxist in the gray frostiness of the early morn- 
ing. The case seems plainly one of getting etlucation under difih- 
culties. But they know how to bundle up ; and if there is hardshij:), 
they seem not to realize it. Perhaps they are even to be envied. 
The experience gives them hardiness; and the long th-i\'es back 
and forth, with whatever they contain of storms and cold and mis- 
haps, will in after life be among the most pleasantly treasured 
memories. 

Church-going is not much affected by the winter weather. A 
storm will keep a certain number at home, whatever the season. 
But, if the roads are passable, the man who is in the habit of going 
to church continues to go the year round, indejiendent of heat or 
cold. On a crisp day of sunshine and gootl sleighing, the ride to 
church, accompanied by the cheerful music of a string of bells, is 
a real pleasure. 

On the whole, the New England winter is by no means dubi- 
ous, and its people find it enjoyable. If there is some suffering 
or discomfort, it is doubtless far less than in the cities ; and it may 
as well be recognized that Utopia has been dreamed of, never yet 
realized. 



' c:— ■ 


r' 


1,-- m , / — -^ ^^^Cj~^^^^tfcJ''| V/ 


^ 


jfimiiih . ^ ~ — ^T T \f)f 


1' 



II 



A WINTER RIDE 



nP^^SINESS called me one winter from my home in the C'on- 
necticut valley to the hill country in the extreme western 
part of Massachusetts. I could go by train ; but it seemed to 
me it would make a j^leasant and interesting ride, and I con- 
cluded to drive instead. It was March first. The night before 
there had been a slight snowstorm, that ended in a dash of 
sleet and rain. The rain had crusted the snow ; and, in spite 
of the brisk wind that blew, the snow did not drift. There was 
a change, however, as soon as I began to ascend the hills beyond 
the lowlands. It was only in the valley that it had rained, and 
in the upland opens the wind whisked the sifting snow across 
the fields in a way to make one shiver. The air was keen and 
chilling, but by getting out and walking I could always get 
into a glow in a short time. The road was a long uphill way, 
mostly through the wood, where the wind roared continually in 
the crashing tree-tops. The woods seemed ver\^ lifeless ; though 
I sometimes saw a rabbit-track, or heard a squirrel's squeak, 
or saw a lonely crow flapj^ng hungrily through the wind. Once 
I heard a chopj^er's axe not far away among the trees, but I 
could not see the man. 

31 



II. A WINTER RIDE ,2 

W'lieii, at long intervals, I met a team, I had to manoeuvre to 
turn out so that 1 would dodge drifts and deep places. If the 
team I met was loaded, I was expected to give it the whole 
road. I\I\' horse would flounder out into the untrodden snow 
at the side of the double trail of the roadway, and stand there 
buried clear up to his body till the team passed. Then we 
struggled back into the road and went on. The roads had 
been ploughed out, and the snow was piled up in high ridges 
on each side. 

At noon I stopped to give the horse a feed, and eat a lunch 
I had with me. A little later, when we were again on the 
wav, 1 met a wood-team ; and a shcut distance farther on I saw 
a place in the woods where the team had burrowed out two 
or three woodpiles. Beyond that no team had left a track that 
day. I now approached a bare hill-top. The road was worse 
drifted than it had been before, and the snow was whirling 
across in clouds. 

The prospect was dubious, but I did not like to turn back. 
I got out, and led the horse. The horse sank in more than I 
did, and the sleigh cut in so that the snow heaped up against 
the dashboard. Then, of a sudden, the horse stepped out of 
the track, and nearly disappeared from sight. At the same 
time he seemed to get his legs tangletl up, so that he could barely 
move. I thought it was tiiue to stop ; and I trod around the 
horse a little, unhitched him, and induced him t(~) flounder on 
to a less drifted spot, whei'c he stood, whitened with snow, with 
the harness draggling about him, while I considered what I 
should do next. Far over the hill one or two farmhouses were 
in sight. If I could get o\cr the stone wall to the left, I might 
make my way across the fields and get help. But it seemed 
best I should try to help myself first. It was hopeless going 
ahead ; and with great pains I lifted the sleigh about, worked it 
along to a shallower spot, got my horse back between the thills, 



^ , ««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

■3 J CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

and then plunged along out of the drifts to where, in the shelter 
of the woods, the roadway was clear. 

I had not given up my journey, but simply went back till 
I could find some other road over the hills. Not till I had 
ofone six or ei<iht miles did I find such a road. Then began 
another long ascent through the woods, that brought me, just 




A Hilltop Village 

after sundown, in sight of the outlying houses of Littletown 
village on an open hill-top close ahead. As soon as the road 
left the woods it was buried in great drifts, with a deep trench 
du": throu2,-h them for a thoroughfare. Snow had blown in and 
narrowed the trench ; l)ut it still seemed possible to make the 
passage, and I went on. Soon I thought it safer to get out 
and walk. The horse was bound to keep in the lowest part of 
the trench ; and, in spite of all I could do, the sleigh was slid 
up on the snowbank, and my effects were pitched out into the 



11. A WINTER RIDE „ . 
34 

drifts. I sto]3ped the horse, righted the sleigh somewhat, got 
m\- tilings aboard, and tried again. Within a rod, over went the 
sleigh a second time ; and matters were worse than ever, for I 
could not get the sleigh right side up till 1 had unhitched the 
liorse. I hastened to get back into it some of my valuables 
that were being covered by the sifting snows, and then went for- 
ward to reconnoitre. T^rom far up the road a man was approach- 
ing with a staff and a buntlle. He was not exactly a ministering 
angel ; but he ser\-ed just as well, for he readily consented to 
help me pull the sleigh up through the worst of the near drifts. 
When we had done that, I suggested lea\'ing it there o\-er night ; 
but the man said it would be buried out of sight by morning. 
So we hitched in the horse, and the man went ahead to tread 
a path for him, while I followed, leading him ; and we staggered 
along till he said he guessed I could go alone the rest of the 
way — I'd find a hotel a half a mile farther. He said his home 
was off on a side road, so drifted no team could get to it. 

The horse and I, in time, came to a house which had a drift 
in the yard that nearly buried the L out of sight. A boy and 
a man who had been watching mv apj^roach from a stable-door 
came out to interview me, and saitl they would go along, and 
show me the way to the hotel. In their company I crossed 
the road, went through the dooryard of a house opposite, back 
of the barn, under the ai)ple-trees, and picked an uncertain 
way across the fields. In the end, under the light of a full 
moon whose round, surprised face was looking out of the east, 
I reached the hotel. This hotel was a big, verandaed barn of 
a building, which in warm weather was the resort of many 
summer boarders, but in winter was well-nigh deserted. 

Sup])er was spread for me in a little corner sitting-room, where 
were the selectmen and town-clerk of the community, waiting 
to register voters in anticipation of the March town-meeting. 
They said every votei" in town was registered but one, and they 



35 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



ditln't believe he'd come. Still, it was the law they shouitl be 
there that night, and there they were. Chief among these 
officials was the tall, bony chairman of selectmen, a politician 
of some note in the region, and the leading man of the church 
and town. He talked in the vernacular, with the usual \'ankee 
twang, as did all the others. A youngish man named Harris 
kept the hotel. His assistants were a red-headed and capable 
young woman who j:)resided in the kitchen, and a young man 
who had at one time been a reporter on the Xciv York Sun, but 






r' 




Sharpening Hi> Axe 



now had plans to make his fortune by running a maple-sugar 
camp in the spring. 

The big coal-stove kept the room comfortably warm, I thought ; 



II. A WINTER RIDE 



36 



but the town-officials, in spite of their staying all through the 
long evening, did not take their extra wraps off, not even the 
chairman of the selectmen, who had on two overcoats. 

The men did not think much of these upland winters. One said, 
" I told my wife that if I had any amount of sense I wouldn't 
spend the winter on Littletown hill. It's a leetle too tough." 

They had a Chautauqua club in town with fifteen members, 
that met every week at the members' houses. Some of the 
attendants lix'e far out of the centre, and they could not get 
together much before eight or half-jiast. Two hours are spent in 
the regular exercises ; and then, if there is time afterwards, they 
have games, but it is usually too late. 

Not more than one-fourth of the three hundred inhabitants 
go to church. There is little opposition to religion — the non- 
church-goers are simi)]y indifferent. A few of the farmers, 
when they happen to feel like it, work on Sundays just as on 
a week-day. The preacher who for many 'N'cars had presided 
over the Littletown flock had recently, at the age of eighty-one, 
received a call to a neighboring town, and had left them. They 
had a church fund that brought in two hundi'ed and fifty dollars 
a }'ear, and they usuall)' intended to pay the minister a salarv 
of fi\'e hundred dollars. In addition he was gi\'en the use of 
the parsonage and the fifteen-acre farm that goes with it. 
While without a minister the two deacons preside in the pulpit. 
They alternate with each other in reading sermons on Sunday 
mornings, and take turns in reading hymns and making prayers. 
Sunday evenings, and again on Thursday evenings, when the 
weather permits, they have a pra)er-meeting ; but, just as in 
most country ]:)]accs, this attracts few attendants. livery other 
week the Ladies' Aid Societv give a sociable at one of the 
homes; and, besides the refi"eshments ser\-ed, they have humor- 
ous recitations, music, etc., not to menticju the collection which 
is taken up. 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
^' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

Toward ten o'clock the town-fathers bnttoned np their coats 
and departed ; and then the hmdlord, at my request, guided me 
up-stairs to bed. In my room a fire was burning smokily in 
a rusty little stove. It seemed inclined to go out altogether; 
but about midnight it burst into cheerful flaming, and through 
the cracks and open damper cast flickering patches of light out 
on the walls and ceiling. The wind blew furiously and gustily 
all through the night. It shook the house, teetered the bed- 
stead, and kept my window curtain scraping on the casing till 
I crawled out and attempted to run it up. It wouldn't run ; and 
I had to tie its tassel to a chair, and swing it out into the room. 

Next morning when I looked out of my window at half-past 
seven, the sun was shining brightly, and it continued to shine 
all day. Just as I finished breakfast the stage arrived from the 
town beyond. This stage passes over the hill in the early morn- 
ing every week-day, on its way to the county town, and returns 
in the middle of the afternoon. It is drawn by two horses. In 
the winter the vehicle is a rusty, two-seated sleigh ; in the sum- 
mer a rusty, three-seated, square top-carriage. The driver came 
stamping into the hotel in his big fur coat, with the leather mail- 
bag. Two or three shovellers accompanied him. He doubted 
whether he had better attempt to go farther. His only freight 
was the mail-bag and a single passenger. The shovellers went 
out, and in a wdiirlwind of snow attacked one of the drifts. The 
task looked hopeless, and the driver offered a shoveller two dollars 
to take the mail-bag down on foot. He accepted, and tramped 
away in company with the single passenger. The rest of us 
hurried in-doors, and the driver said he would spend the day 
playing " pitch." The ex-reporter and he got out their card- 
packs, their cigars and cigarettes, called for a pitcher of cider, 
and sat down with a stand between them in the corner to play. 
The landlord looked on ; and so did one of the shovellers, an old 
man named Dac;on. The latter was a leading Adventist and 



II. A WINTER RIDK o 

S[)iritiuilist of the region, a religious man and an earnest exhorter, 
and capable expoinuler of his \ie\vs when occasion offered. Yet 
he was a man to whom a drop of liquor did not come amiss now 
and then, and the players asked him companionably if he had any 
spirits over at his house. 

"No," he said ; " I wish I had." 




.Saui.m; \\ 1.1(1]) 



The stage-driver had no liquor, and neither had the ex-reporter ; 
so they all said it was a dr\' time, and turned for comfort to the 
cider-pitcher. 

There were (|uite a number of " Advents " in the town ; and 
they owned a little chapel, but held no regular meetings. Some of 
them attended the Congregational church. Several yeans before, 
there had been an Advent revival, which threw the believers into 



oq ««A BOOK. OF COUNTRY 

"^^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

great excitement. They neglected their work, they e.\i)ected tlie 
world to come to an end so soon, and thought they must be watch- 
ing, and converting others. Thus some, who were formerly well- 
to-do, were now quite poor. They still kei)t up their organization, 
and when they had a meeting would make fervent appeals to the 
brethren to hold out to the end. To he sure there were only a 
few of the faithful, but did not the I^ible say that at the Lord's 
coming there would be but a few .' Mr. Dagon said that it was 
prophesied in the Scriptures that the moon should be darkened, 
the stars fall, and Christ would appear to gather his chosen. In 
1789 came the fulfilment of the first part of the prophecy, for 
then the sun was darkened. In 1833 the stars fell; and now we 
only await the final sign. lie thought it would come soon, but 
he did not know just how soon. The v\d\'ent belief, he said, was 
that the dead sleep till Christ's coming, — all except two, Enoch 
and Elijah, who at once entered into glory. They do not believe 
in hell, but that the wicked and those who do not accept Christ 
will be as ashes trodden under foot, annihilated, just as much as 
any one can be annihilated. There will be a new heaven and a 
new earth, and Christ will come here to reign over his followers. 

A man came in after a time, and wanted to borrow a file. He 
was a rusty-looking fellow, good-natured, they said, — good worker 
for other people, but too easy and too slack a manager to do well 
for himself. Mr. Dagon asked him if he played. 

" I don't play for money," he rej^lied, " only for cigars and 
whiskey or cider." 

So he and the old gentleman sat down and pla}"ed a game of 
high-low-jack. Two or three other pe()])lc happened in, and 
loitered about the stove. To the question, " Had the wind 
gone down ? " the answer was always, " \'es, gone down over 
the hill toward Millburg." 

" It blows the stufifin' right out o' me," remarked one. " Ilow'd 
your thermometer stand here this mornin' ? " he continued. 



II. A WINTER RIDE .^ 

" Two b'low," responded the landlord. 

" Well, }-ou"ve got a pretty accommodatin' thermometer, I 
reckon. 'Twas ten b'low down to our place." 

Late in the morning we .saw from the window a pair of horses 
struggling through the drifts, and floundering so deeply it seemed 
as if they were in danger of being altogether buried. The driver 
urged them o:r till at length they came through to the hotel. 
He had come up from Millburg to collect butter, eggs, etc., and 
had broken down in the drifts, and left his sleigh behind. He 
stayed thawing out till noon, when he fed his horses, ate his dinner 
from a tin pail, and then we saw his blue frock-coat moving off 
down the road through the whirling snows. 

Dinner was ser\-ed in a big chilly kitchen, where was a cooking- 
stove and a great cluttering of dishes and odds and ends. After 
we had eaten, w^e again adjourned to the little corner-room wdiere 
the big sto\'e was. The landlord i:)ulled the dog off the lounge, 
and lay down there himself, and most of the company had a smoke. 

Our window looked out on a wide sweep of white fields, misted 
by scurrying drift ; and far off were lines of half-wooded hills. 
Late in the afternoon the shoveller arri\-ed with the mail-bag. 
Then the stage-driver got int(^ his big fur coat, and the eight men 
of us who happened to be at the hotel went out and dragged his 
sleigli through the wild snowblasts over the drifts of the near road- 
wa\', while he followed after with the horses. On we went with 
the sleigh across lots, over stone walls and through dooryards, 
now and then dodging along the roadway for a ):)iece, till we came 
to a turn where the highway left the hill-top. Then si.\ of us 
returned, and left the dri\-er and the other two to make their way 
as best they could. 

I continued on bevond the hotel as far as the woods where I 
had hrst encountered the hill-top diifts the night before. In some 
])laces the way was blown bare, down to the dirt ; in others, the 
snow was heaped in masses little short of mountainous. I^^very 



^, «« A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

^•^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

house had one or two l)iy; windrows in its lee. In tlie final drift 
at the edge of the woods was a heavy two-horse sled high up on 
the snow, yet nearly buried. On it were blankets and a broken 
bridle. The neck-yoke was stuck in the snow a bit ahead, and 
farther along was more broken harness. The .spot where I had 
thought of leaving ni)- sleigh was covcretl many feet deep with 
hard-packed snow. 

By the time I turned back it was getting dusky, and the round 
red moon had come up in the blue-gray haze over the eastern 
snow hills, and looked across the frozen landscape and into the 
ruddy glow of the west, where the sun had just set. It was no 
joking matter facing the fierce wintl and the biting paiticles of 
flying ice, and I was glad to get back to the hotel. 

On the morning following the sky was grayed with gathering 
clouds. The distant valley was veiled with a light haze. The 
wind had died down, and it was possible to move about with some 
comfort ; and by eight o'clock all the able-bodied men in town 
were out with shovels and teams clearing the roads. Hie shovel- 
lers charge the town fifteen cents an hour, and "find themselves." 
That does not infer that they get lost, but means they must fur- 
nish their own board and lodging. 

Soon teams began to appear on their way to market, and went 
dodging through the fields and bumping over the stone- walls. In 
reply to my remark that they didn't often get drifts higher than 
that, did they.'' the inhabitants would say, " W'al, I do' know — 
we sometimes get some of 'em a little higher, but not every 
winter." 

At the parsonage a small apple-tree was bmied uj) to its top 
twigs. The shovellers commented on this apple-tree to the effect 
that now was a "good time for the minister t(^ pick his apples — 
wouldn't have to use no ladder." 

I asked if it was going to storm. One said, after looking at 
the sky, that it would snow within twenty-four hours. l^ut the 



II. A WINTER RIDE 



44 



l)lacksnuth was sure the next storm would be rain ; " For," said he, 
" I heard the crows cawin' round the fields like blazes yesterday." 
Down at the edge of the woods were a dozen men shovelling 
in the big drift there. They had a rough trench through, when 
along came a heav\' two-horse sled with a ton of butter on board. 
Into the trench went the team, and down went the horses almost 
out of sight, and the thing came to a stop. Then there was 
shouting, and tugging at the sled, and shovelling; and again and 
again the team started forward, only to come to a halt within a 
yard or two, with the horses as much entangled in the snow as if 
their legs were tied. But perseverance brought them through at 
last ; and the men went back to dig their trench deeper. 




H 



(Jetting a I'kaim Through the Ijkikt 



The sky, as the morning waned, continued to darken ; and 
presently the first flakes of a storm came whirling out of the 
west. The shovellers said there was not much use trying to 
journey over those hills in such drifts, unless I was obliged to; 
and by the time I got ready to come back there would like 
enough be a thaw, and then the slumping would make the 



.(- •« A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

^-' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

going worse still. The result was that, when I returned to 
the hotel, I got my team, and turned back toward home. It 
was laborious travelling ; but I got along very well till I entered 
the trench in the great drift near the woods. In the midst of 
that I sighted a team coming up the hollow toward me. ]\Iy 
landlord with his shovel had come along to see me well started 
on the homeward way ; antl he shouted at the other driver, and 
hurled swear-words at him, till he woke U}), and came to a stop. 
The team we met was a double one, and had on a load. It was 
our duty, therefore, to make way. \W' selected a shallow place, 
dug some, unhitched the horse, swimg the sleigh out, got the 
horse into the drift, and let the other team pass. Then we 
fixed up, and I went on alone. I reached home without further 
mishap, and the next week made the journey I had planned by 
railroad. 







L 



iZi— - 



III 



TOWN-MEETING 



N most of our New I^ngland towns the day set apart for 
town-meet iiii; is the first Monday in Marcli. Winter has 
begun to lose its keenness by that time, and tlie unsettled days 
that prelude spring have arrived. With the coming of March, 
spells of weather are to be exj^ected when the sun's rays are 
full of heat, and the snow softens into slush ; and lirown earth 
patches on the hillsides and muddy streaks in the roadways 
aj^pear with astonishing quickness. But, as a rule, on town- 
meeting day there is still sleighing, and not infrequently the 
cold is sharp and blustering. 

The meeting begins at nine o'clock in the morning, and 
continues till such a time in the afternoon as all business is 
finished. Only a handful of people, aside from the town-officers, 
ai"e ])rescnt at nine o'clock. Most of the farmers have not yet 
finished their moiming's work; and, l)esides, they do not expect 
anything of special interest or im]:)()rtance will be done before 
ten or half-])ast. The first thing is to ballot for a moderator. 
Usually the friends of some jxu"ticular man who wants the 
honor have arranged previously that this man shall have the 

46 



47 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



office; and they arc on nand, and [promptly elect their man. 
The person elected is usually a man of some vi<;or, with ccju- 
siderable self-confidence and power of voice. After he takes 
the chair the town-clerk reads the articles of the town-warrant, 
and the village minister offers a short prayer. 

In what follows I describe the town-meeting as I know it 
in one of the older valley farming-towns ; but in most particulars 
the story would be much the same in any New luigland country 
place. The town-hall is a low white building, with a pillared 
front, that stands next the church. The church horse-sheds are 




At the Town Hall 



full of teams by the middle of the forenoon. Other teams have 
been left at the hotel and at the near neighbors.' There are 



III. TOWX-MEKTING r, 

not many stay-at-homes — nearly all the men-folks of the town 
arc out. J^iit the large majority of them are present, not be- 
cause of a serious interest in town affairs, but for a holiday- — 
for the fun they can get out of it. These pcojile like to vote, 
and they have a personal interest in the license question and 
in the choice of a few of the town-officers. l^ut it is extremely 
rare that one of them says anything publicly in the meeting. 
Privately they carry on long conversations, and they only listen 
when the s])eaking gets exciting or funnv. They like to loiter 
on the porch outside, and at the Ixick of the room. The mod- 
erator has at intervals to ask lliem to keep quiet, or he requests 
the constable to keep the door shut and to preserve order. But 
the constable is a stout little man, whose eyes twinkle, and who 
seems to take disorder as a joke rather than seriously. lie trans- 
fers the dignit)' of his presence to the neighborhood of the dis- 
orderly, and winks, and makes a mild suggestion or two, and shuts 
the door; and the voices of the social voters in the back of the 
room, which had grown loud, resume their foiarier undertone. 

Idle crowd that gathers on town-meeting day is an uncom- 
monl}- interesting one. They come from the highwa\-s and the 
bywax's. They are not the same jieople one sees at church. 
Even the church-going ha\-e not their Sunday appearances. Once 
in a while there is a man who has on his best clothes, but he is 
the exception. The majority are in their every-day working 
clothes, and they keep their hats on ; and hardly anyone takes his 
overcoat off, no matter how hot it gets. As a whole, the crowd 
looks coarse and unkempt. They rejicl rather than attract. One 
does not feci he would like to lix'C in the same house with most of 
them. The wa}' they sloucli ai'ound, and the ])i'omiscuous way 
they have of spitting their tobacco juice about, both indoors and 
out, does not speak \er\' well for either their cleanliness or for 
their mental calibre. Neither is a well-roundetl health character- 
istic of the men one sees. There is a certain toughness that 



49 



• •A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



comes from a life out-of-doors, but not a natural, well-balanced 
virility. The young men arc some of a blowsy redness, some thin- 
blooded and pallid ; the old men are withered or gnarled. It is 
plain that many, particularly those that represent the foreign ele- 




ment, are drinkers. The majority of country people ha\'e not 
such habits as make for their best health, l^ut, as far as that 
goes, neither have the majority such habits anywhere. 

The hall interior is a big square room, with tall windows along 
the sides. It has the somewhat battered rustiness characteristic 
of such public places. There arc two stoves in ()i:)posite corners 
of the room, with long reaches of stove-pipe crawling along the 
wall, high up to the chimney, in a third corner. The centre of 
the room is occujjied by several lines of green settees. Up in 
front is a long j^latform ; and on it, behind a long table, sit the 



III. TOWN-MEETING -q 

three selectmen and the moderator. At a desk a little to one side 
is the town-clerk. It seems to depend on half a dozen men to do 
most of the necessar\', as well as the unnecessary, talking of the 
dav ; and these are the men who see that the routine business is 
pushed along and (.lone in order. They sit scattered about some- 
wliere near the front of the hall. 

Now and then one of these men will get up, and go over to 
another to give him a hint or have a consultation. They visit the 
selectmen's table often, to keep posted, and to make and take sug- 
gestions. Sometimes several of them will gather for an earnest 
talk with the officials about the town-clerk's desk; and all business, 
as far as the rest of the assembly is concerned, is at a standstill. 
The moderator fingers his mallet and smiles helplessly, and the 
lone selectman whose duty it is to turn the crank of the ballot- 
machine that registers the votes on license is the only one to keep 
his i)lace. He looks at the audience as if he acknowledged that 
this was not business-like, but what could he do about it .-' 

When a question is put, these half-dozen men who seem natu- 
rally to be the chief actors of the day, and a few others, are the 
only ones usually to say " Aye " or " No." The rest of the crowd 
simply looks on. They do not voice their opinions, either in votes 
or in their remarks, except in the continuous rumble of their con- 
versation. 

When there is balloting to be done, several wooden boxes are 
put on the table where tlie selectmen sit. These boxes have 
mostly been made for the i)urpose, and are i^ainted red, and have a 
label pasted on the side to show what office the box receives votes 
for. Wlien there are not enough of the regular boxes, some old 
soap-box from tlie neighboring store serves instead. The voters 
file in front of the selectmen's table, back of a little fence, their 
names are called off by the moderator, the selectmen check them 
on the votingdist, they deposit their ballots, and pass on. Nearly 
all the men take off their hats when they pass the voting-boxes, 



ej ••A i;C)OK OK COUNTRY 

"* CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

but once in a while some old fellow will nf)t observe this cere- 
mony. The ballots are usually printed slips ; llic candidates look 
out for that, and ha\e them placed in the hands of their friends 
for distribution. Often there is only one candidate for an office, 
a man who has served as town-clerk, or whatever the office is, for 
many years. He receives every vote cast. When it is plain that 
things are going without opposition, a motion is frequently made 
in the midst of the voting to turn the bo.\ down to save time. 
For some minor office there is occasionally such slight interest 
that only one vote is cast. 

Considerable joking is intermixed with the work of the day. 
There is real wit in some of the remarks. The voters always en- 
joy the nominating and electing of fence-\'ievvers, measurers of 
wood and bark, and field-drivers. The two former offices were 
])erhaps very useful fifty or a hundred years ago, but they entail 
slight duties in these days. Yet a man has to be elected for each 
district, and the name is presented that seems to be funniest 
in that connection. Neither have the field-drivers much to do, 
but such caring for stray animals as is necessarv is not regarded 
as a job to " hanker " for. Some man of the district who has 
married within the past year, or some young fellow who the fall 
before cast his first vote, is usually selected for the office. 

A good deal of respect is felt and shown for the town-meeting 
routine. The educational influence of the meeting is undoubtedly 
good. It is a legislature on a small scale, a miniature House of 
Commons. The speaking is mostly pithy and direct, and easily 
drops into humor. There are the droning men, but they make 
themselves heard only occasionally ; and some men of abilitv are 
too long-winded, and repeat themselves tiresomelv, and there are 
those who indulge in spread-eagleism. The latter is particularly 
ineffective. A few short, sharp sentences are the rule. Slips in 
grammar are not infrequent, even from the town-fathers ; and 
while the nasal New Endand drawl that makes "down " " daovvn " 



III. TOWN-MEETING 



52 



is- not always prominent, it is never altogether absent in the 
speeches of the clay. 

ICvery town has its cliques. There are certain men the cliques 
want elected, certain measures they want carried. In some towns 
and in some years they do not make themselves very much felt, 
but again they occasion very sharp lighting. There are towns so 
composed that there are two parties with opposing interests ; for 
instance, where there is a farm region and a manufacturing village 
in the same township, or two farm villages of about the same size. 
Whichever gets the upper hand neglects the other part, and ap- 
propriates and spends money for its own particular advantage. 




Thii I'liKin Lanuim.. 



There is no lack of e.xcitement on town-meeting day in such 
places ; and some of the more excitable men will shake fists and 
call names, and make it necessary for their friends to restrain 



-, ««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

•^^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

them by laying hold of their coat-tails. This sort of thing 
awakens intense enthusiasm on the part of the audience at the 
back of the room. 

A town is very apt to have one or two chronic objectors or 
cranks in it. They make business lag, but they usually amuse 
the crowd. There are old-fashioned men, with queerly trimmed 
beards, and long hair combed down in front of their ears after the 
style of fifty years ago, who denounce change, and think the town 
should pattern after the ways and economics of the time when 
they were young. They especially despise any new-fangled no- 
tions about schools, and think boarding around for the teachers, 
and plenty of licking for the scholars, and a continuation of all 
children in the district schools until they are prepared for the 
academy, is the best system of education ever dc\ised. That was 
the way they were educated, and it is very clear to them that 
those old schools turned out better specimens than the present 
schools do. 

But in all places where partianship has not run mad, the' vo- 
ters at the close of a discussion will adopt the view that has been 
made to appear most sensible. They want to do the fair thing. 
The chairman of the selectmen is the person who does more talk- 
ing usually than any other citizen. He has to explain recommen- 
dations made, and defend the expenditures and decisions of the 
board for the past year, whenever these are questioned. The 
chairman of selectmen in the town I speak of has a salary of one 
hundred dollars. It seems as if the work and talk of the town- 
meeting day alone were worth nearly that. What he says is 
almost always reasonable ; and the voters feel that he is, as he 
says, " working for the best interests of the town," and they give 
him their support. 

In towns where the saloon and anti-saloon elements are at all 
evenly divided, there is an immense underground acti\'ity of the 
drinkers. They are sure to be on hand, all of them, and to act 



HI. roVVN-MEETING 



54 




A t'lRH ON THE Kuijli Ot- THli WoOUS 



as one man. If a town has 
a poor-house and a drinking- 
place, I think these voters 
care little what else it lacks. 
The man who runs the hotel 
is around during the morning 
at the polls, to see how 
things look ; but later he has 
to attend to business. He 
serves free drinks that day to 
the faithful, and the faithful 
are thirsty and call often. 
When, in the middle of the 
afternoon, it is announced by 
the moderator that license has 
carried the day, the visages 
of the drinkers light up joy- 
fully ; and they shout, and 
stamp the floor, and clap 
hands. Then there is a sud- 
den cjuiet. Every soul of 
them has deserted the hall 
and public business, and gone 
down to the hotel to celebrate 
in the flowing bowl the sweet 
delights of x'ictory. 

Some of the humorous 
sparring of the day comes on 
such questions as the follow- 
ing : One man, named Bates, 
thmks the best way to collect 
taxes is to allow a five-per- 
cent discount for prompt- 




Old Friends 



57 ••A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SU NSHINE 

ness. Another man says there is no gain in that, even for 
the man that takes the discount. " Now," he says, "a man like 
Mr. Bates, with plenty of ready money, pays his tax and gets his 
discount. But the man wiio doesn't have ready money just waits 
till he's made up that amount of interest before he pays. So it 
amounts to the same thing in the end." There was just enough 
truth in this statement of the case to make it funny. 

The selectmen proposed that the town should buy a roller. 
The choice lay between three styles, that cost respectively $185, 
ig200, and $225. The selectmen thought the one for $185 hardly 
suitable, and a motion was made to appropriate $200. This was 
objected to, because it seemed possible it was wisest to get the 
^225 one. The man who made the motion then got up and said 
he expected that with a $200 appropriation they would get the 
Jg22 5 machine. If the manufacturers knew that was all the town 
had to pay they would, " in these hard times," let it go for that. 
The selectmen could beat them down if they wanted to, easy. 
But it wasn't clear that this was practical, and e\en on the $200 
machine there was freight to pay. So another man got up and 
explained it was not wise to make any hard limits in the appropri- 
ation, and moved an amendment to the motion that would make 
it read ^200, or thereabouts. But the voters took the view that 
there was too much freedom in that word, and they made the 
limit $200. No doubt they were right in thinking that at least 
the $200 machine could be had, freight paid. 

An old covered wooden bridge in town was badly in need of 
repairs. A man got up and said he would like to know what the 
matter with it was. He'd never heard a word but that the bridge 
was all right. At once a quick-witted, but illiterate. Irishman 
jumped up, and said, " Mr. Moderator, it's kind o' springy, and 
it makes a man dizzy to cross it." 

This bridge was on the road to a large town, where many of 
the farmers sold produce. This large town was a famous place 



III. TOWN-MKETING 58 

for liquor-selling. As soon as the Irishman dropped into his seat, 
another man said he guessed they didn't find the bridge springy 
going down, but it was when they were coming back, after they'd 
taken something in the town. Up popped the Irishman. " Yes," 
he said, " that is so — the bridge does not shake when we are go- 
ing to the town. That is because the wagon has a heavy load on 
that keeps it down. But when we come back we have no load, 
and then it is springy." 

A slick young man from a city bridge company was present ; 
and he was given a chance to address the meeting, and say what 
sort of a bridge was best for the place. An iron bridge of the 
sort needed would cost something under one thousand dollars. 
" Well," was the comment, '' if one thousand dollars is your out- 
side price, what is your inside price.'" 

The young man did not quite like this question, and he hesi- 
tated. " Will you build it for five hundred dollars ? " asked the 
man. 

" No," said the bridge-builder. 

" Will you build it for si.\ hundred, then ? " was the question. 
♦' A thousand dollars would repair the old one, and I thought five 
hundred ought to be enough to build a new one." 

At noon the company adjourned for dinner. Some went 
home, some went to their friends ; but a large number stepped 
over to the church, where the ladies of the parish were ready with 
oysters, coffee, and accessories at twenty-five cents a person. 
The si.xteen or eighteen dollars they took in would do for some 
necessary ]xuish work, of which there is never a time when there 
is lack. 

The clatter and the chatter of the vestry at eating-time are very 
enlivening; but there is not much time to spare after eating is 
over, and the horses in the sheds have been fed. Still, one has 
time for a cigar ; and, as treating is the order of the day, the 
cigars pass about freely, and staid middle-aged men, whom you will 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
59 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

hardly see with a cigar at any other time in the year, will be 
smoking one town-meeting day. At the post-office, the selectmen 
have invested in several boxes of cigars, not too expensive an 
article, antl everybody is at liberty to help himself. The select- 
men, of course, have hundred-dollar positions at stake, and they 
want to keep all the voters good-natured toward them. The odor 
of tobacco was apparent in the hall in the morning; but in the 
afternoon the cigar-smoking in the rear of the hall is constant, 
the air turns hazy, and the atmosjihere, to the unaccustomed, is 
sickening. It is enough to make a woman-suffragist of a non- 
smoker, however violently he might be opposed to the general 
principle. Men will not respect signs or public places ; yet, to 
their credit, it can still be said that they respect the presence of 
a woman. 

Toward dusk the last article in the warrant has been talked 
over and voted on, and the meeting adjourns. Every one then 
hurries off home to get the farm-work done before supper. The 
women-folks say they would know where the men had been, if 
only by the odor of their clothes. Indeed, that tobacco odor is so 
ingrained that it takes some days for it to wear entirely away. 




IV 



HOW SPRING COMES 



"THE poet pictures spring as a beautiful maiden coming down 
a woodland path. Her face is wreathed in smiles, and her 
arms are full of flowers. Then, too, when you turn the i)ages of 
an art catalogue, and find a painting entitled " Spring," you may 
be pretty sure the original will be some hillside where the apple- 
trees put forth their clouds of pink-and-white blossoms, or a bit 
beside some stream or i)ond where the green mists of the fresh 
starting leafage are mirrored in the quiet waters. 

This is spring idealized. It is true, yet it is not the whole 
trutli. Wilh the coming of March the New I^ngland native be- 
gins to look for a thaw, which, unlike the other thaws of the 
winter, sliall be a finality. The other thaws, as, for instance, 
"the January thaw," which the oldest inhabitant always expects 
witli no small degree of confidence, only temporize with winter. 
A cold snap of redoubled severity always lurks in their wake. 
When the March thaw comes, however, the farmer has a feeling 
that sjiring is not far off. lie finds a harbinger of approaching 
mildness in the way the ci'ows caw, in the woodpecker's signalling 
as he hammers away at a dead limb on tlie maple-tree before the 

60 



6i 



• «A KOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



house, in the south winds that blow ; and when, at length, he 
sights a bluebird, that settles it — spring is really coming. 

Yet there is still a sharp frost nearly every night. Even 
before the sun has set you can feel the chill of the approaching 
night; and the mud stiffens, and splinters of ice begin to form on 
the roadway puddles. Winter is loath to acknowledge himself 
conquered, and he frequently sweeps down and does battle with 
the gentler forces of the South long after these have begun to 
assert themselves. Sometimes he comes with a whirl of snow 
that whitens all the fields, and gives the landscape a midwinter 




SpKIN'C. AMOM, the >. I W hxGLAMJ li I 



look again. But even if it is a blizzard that buries the country, 
and drifts the roadway, the snow lies lightly, and it settles and 
disappears very quickly. 



IV. HOW SPRING COMES ^ 

Again, winter comes with wild blasts of wind that make every 
wooden house at all exjjoscd vibrate and totter, and set every 
loose blind, door, and window about the place to rattling and bang- 
ing. It whistles about the eaves and chimney-tops, and makes 
strange creakings and buzzings among the crevices and loose 
boards of the barn. It turns the roads to flint, and petrifies in 
them ex'cry rut and roughness. At such times Mr. Farmer gets 
well shaken up, even when he travels in his "spring wagon," — a 
vehicle which has nothing to do with the season, but so named 
because it has sjn-ings to cushion its movements. 

Snowstorms sometimes come as late as the middle of April. 
The late snowstorms usually occur in the night ; antl it is always 
with something of surj^rise that one awakes in the morning, and 
looks out to find yesterday's brown earth transformed to a world 
of white. The snow is apt to be soft and clinging ; and all the 
trees and fences bear feathery loads that give every view, whether 
of field or village street, a magic charm, and make the aisles of 
the woods fairy-land. These late storms are known as " sugar- 
snows," and are supposed to make the maple sap flow more freely 
— why, I do not know. A day's sunlight will usually dispel them, and 
leave onl}' shreds behind where some chance shadow gave protection. 

To a degree this kind of snow is also deemed a beneficence, in 
that it is said to take the frost out of the ground, and " settle the 
going." But its fir.st effect on the going is rather appalling. If 
you live in the farm districts, and note the teams that pass, you 
will be aj)t to see the farmer on foot ; and his horse panting, with 
lowered head, follows dejectedly after, dragging the wagon. The 
vehicle itself has its wheels so balled with snow that the spokes 
arc almost filled in between, while the hubs have swollen ponder- 
ously, and the rims are ten times their natural size. That the 
snow takes the frost out of the ground seems to be past argument, 
when one notes the effect of its melting. How else could the 
mud be so vastly augmented .'' 



6; 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



There is no feature, perhaps, of the chancjini^ seasons that 
impresses the observer more at this time of year than the effect 
of spring on the roads. l*^)r from four to eight weeks the travel- 



'i - ->. J^K^r-^^. 




A Hk.hwav in Time of I'i.dou 



ling is, to say the least, something much better talked about than 
experienced. First, in the breaking up of winter the snow 
softens, and the horses slump through at every step, and your 
sleigh pitches about like a ship in a heavy sea. Next, the bare 
earth begins to show in spots, and the muddy roadway is exposed 
here and there. As a result, the paths of the travellers become 
characterized by a remarkable irregularity. To take ad\-antage of 
the snow, vehicles on runners dodge all about the roadway, from 
this side to that, and often make detours far out into the fields. 
In every hollow a shallow pond forms, and these sheets of water 
are by no means lacking even in the main highway. When your 



IV. WHEN SPRING COMES 



66 



horse takes a lively gait through one of the larger of these road- 
way ponds, the sensation is much that of a voyage by water on a 
little steam-tug. 

On the days when the mud is at its worst, a drixe along a 
countrv road is much like a drive through a bog as many miles 
long as the journey is. The horse can do little but plod ; and, if 
the wagon is heavily loaded, it is not unlikely you will find si)ots 
where he cannot do even that. When a teamster fintls himself 
stalled in the mud he throws off a part of his load, or gets the 
driver of some friendly team to hitch on ahead, and iniU him out 
of his rut. I'here are times when he has to unhitch his horses, 
and abandon the wagon altogether for the time being. 




UP Floodwood 



W'iiile the mud is at its worst, no team will keep the middle 
of the road if it can heli) itself. If there is turf along the way the 



57 •«A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

teams take to that ; and soon it is so cut up with wheels, and so 
hacked to pieces with hoofs, you would not think grass could ever 
grow there again. In all villages each farmer takes a certain • 
pride m his home lawn ; though, curiously enough, he does not take 
pride enough in anyone else's lawn to prexent his drix'ing on it 
if it is unprotected in the spring mud-time. But it is a common 
habit, as soon as one's turf is threatened, to drag out rails and 
sticks of cord-wood, and throw hei"e and there along the roadsitle 
to encourage the passing teams to stick to the mud. This road- 
side decoration is not specially ornamental. It looks as if some- 
one's fence or wood-pile had blown away, but it serves its purpose. 

The roads dry unevenly, and often with little apparent logic. 
But the highway can be depended on to be slowest to settle 
where sheltered by woods and where the big drifts have lf)ngest 
lingered. Sandy levels are verv quickl}- dried, and the dust Hies 
on them weeks before other jmrts have arrived at their summer 
aspect. A wind which does not freeze is heralded as a good 
thing, " because it will dry up the mud." The harder it blows, 
the more effective it becomes. A gradual approach of mild 
w'eather is also regarded with complacence as regards its relation 
to mud. It is argued that this allows the frost to subside deep 
down, so that when the hard winter upper surface is reduced to 
mud, the la\'er which must be relieved of frost before the mud 
will disappear is much thinner than it would be had the thaw 
been marked enough to make surface mud at once. 

It is about the first of April the farmer makes \\\) his mind 
that winter has come to an end, and that travelling on runners 
'is without question past. Having that thought firmly fixed in 
his mind, he and one of his sons, or the hired man, put away the 
sleds for the summer. The careful man winds his .Sunday-go-to- 
meeting sleigh in an old sheet, and j^erhaj^s goes so iar as to hoist 
it up on the beams in the corn-house. The man who is not care- 
ful simplv jnits the winter \-ehicles in an}' place that comes handy. 



IV. WHEN SPRING COMES 



68 



where they will be out of the way till snow flies again, and where 
they may serve through the warm weather for henroosts, for all 
the attention he will give them. 

In-doors the advent of spring is considered undoubted about 
the time a fine, quiet day comes, when the mid-day heat is such 

that fires are no lon- 
ger needed, and doors 
and windows can be 
thrown open with 
comfort. Mrs. h^ar- 
mer's mind has been 
running on house- 
cleaning for some 
time past ; but this 
warm day has the 
effect of clinching 
things, and she re- 
marks to her daugh- 
ter that they reall\- 
must begin the work 
at once. 

Mr. Farmer suc- 
cumbs to persuasion 
and mild invectix'C, 
and finds himself 
comiK'lled to make up 
a bucket of white- 
wash. Vov two or 
three days he spends 
his spare time flour- 
ishing a broad brush, wherewith he gives the ceilings of all 
the rooms of the house a coating that is declared to make the 
apartments look much better, besides being healthy. 




Si'KlNC.'l IMIi 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
69 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

Meanwhile, IMrs. Farmer and her daughter arc attacking the 
rooms, one b}^ one, turning closets inside out and everything else 
upside down, revelling in soap-suds, and leaving no crack or 
crevice untouched m the energy of their campaign. Carpets are 
torn up, and thrown out of the windows; antl the men-lolks are 
expected to swing them over a rope strung high in air be- 
tween two convenient trees, and give them a beating. The chil- 
dren enjoy taking a hand in this beating, and will ply the long 
apple-tree twigs or the horse-whip with vigor for a time, and take 
great delight in the puffs of dust which every blow starts ; but 
they have not the strength to keep up the work for such a length 
of time as- is deemed necessary, and they tire of the dust as well 
as of the labor. Some one older finishes the job, and is always 
astonished at the amount of dust a carpet can contain, and is 
heartily thankful, by the time he has finished, that house-cleaning 
comes but once a year. To be sure there is some pretty vigorous 
skirmishing with soap-suds and scrubbing-brushes in the fall, but 
the upheaval stops short of carpets. 

After the carpet is cleaned, the men-folks are invited to help 
put it down. The problem as to whether it is worn so it ought 
to be turned is discussed and decided, darning or patching done 
if necessary, and then those engaged crawl around on hands and 
knees in an endeavor to make the carpet fit snugly, and tack it 
there. For some days after the affray, evidence of it may be 
found in the stray tacks which one is liable to encounter, with 
more or less pain or pleasure, anywhere and at any time. 

While this spring renovating is underway, one often feels like 
a stranger and intruder in his own home. Let the furniture be 
all askew, and the carpet up, or the jiictures and shelf-ornaments 
all down, and he has difficulty in placing himself. Fspecially is 
this so if new wall-paper is to be put on, or the kitchen-floor 
painted. In the latter case the family moves out of the kitchen 
for a few days ; and what travel is necessary in that room is done 



IV, WHKN SPRINC. COMES „„ 

on boards laid down on sticks to connect with the cellar-door, 
the buttery, and the sink. One imagines himself walking on a 
narrow bridge above a flood, though the colors — red or yellow — 
do not stimulate this idea very powerfully. 

The sitting-room, for the time, becomes the living-room and 
the working-room. l^\en the meals are eaten there. The chil- 
dren, if not the others, enjo\' the romance of the change, and feel 
like visitors in their own house. The onl\' drawback is that they 
are not allowed to loiter and race on those boards laid down on 
the kitchen-floor as much as the}' woidd like. 

The farmhouse with its outbuildings is usually so placed as 
to form a rough semicircle opening toward the south. This gives 
a certain protection from winter winds. As a result, the snow 
disai:)])ears from the doorvard a number of days before it does 
from the siu'rountling fields ; and no sooner is the snow gone 
than an un}deasant odor becomes apparent in the back-door neigh- 
borhood, and shows that the ghosts of the slojis it had been found 
convenient to throw out there during the winter are beginning to 
assert themselves. Mrs. Farmer, thereupon, declares that the 
yard has got to be cleaned up. 

After the cleaning, the odors subside to a degree ; but then 
follow some days or weeks when the earthy jiortion of the yard is 
characterized by a general bogginess, which necessitates the lay- 
ing down of lines of boards to such points as it is absolutely 
necessary to reach. 

The liens become an interesting feature of the scene about 
this time. The}' have spent most of their time during the winter 
meditating and picking about on the barn-floor, or tlie immediate 
vicinity, var\ing tlie programme with sundrv excursions to the 
back steps, whei"e they are fond of sunning themselves, and 
where they nia\' fi'cc|uentlv ])ick up a strav crumb, or find a swill- 
])ail to dip into. Tlie back pia/.za and adjoining steps are forbid- 
den territory on most farms ; and Mrs. T^armer is liable to appear 



« • A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
73 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

at any moment with a broom and some ejaculations that the hens 
seem to understand as particuhirly frightful, tor they scurry away 
in great consternation. Nevertheless, they show little hesitation 
in making other visits when the coast is clear. 




After Flood Trash 



Now that the snow has receded, the hens make little expedi- 
tions along the base of the house, and nip off the first green 
spears of grass that appear, and doubtless find other things pleas- 
ing to their palates. Their joy becomes comjilete when they find 
a spot that is sufficiently dry so that they can scratch and wallow 
in it, and make the dust fly. 

Of course the model farmer keeps his hens in a hen-house, 
and depredations of this sort are bygones ; but the majority of our 
country people are not model farmers yet. 

As soon as the nights are no longer frosty, and the ground 
becomes once more earth and not mud, the farmer concludes it is 



IV. WHKN SPRING COMES 



74 



time to plough his garden. The first exercise preparatory to this 
is the trimming up the broken hmhs of the apple-trees about the 
place, and perhaps the cutting off dead limbs and "suckers," with 
the refuse of which he makes a bonfire. If the farmer or any of 
his family has a touch of the poetic or the romantic instinct, this 
ceremony is deferred till evening, when the leaping flames and the 
flying sparks, and the hgures m sharp relief of light ami shadow, 
make a spectacle well worth looking at and being a part of. 








\Vhii'Pi.\i, olt a 1 ire 



The day following certain loads of a fertilizing nature, which 
one would best kecj) to windward of, arc cojivevcd from the barn- 
yard to the garden jxitch ; and by nightfall the little field has been 
ploughed, a strip whcic the onions are to go raked over, and a 
couple of rows of potatoes and four rows of ]:)case planted. The 
whole family goes out and takes part in the work for a while after 
supper; and when the darkness deepens, and brings their labor to 
a close, thev still loiter a while to ha\e the satisfaction of a short 
contemplation of this woik, so well begun. 



75 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



Long before, even when the snows of early March were fly- 
ing, Mrs. Farmer had started some tomato-plants in-doors. She 
planted the seeds in such wooden boxes as she could find, in tin 
pots, earthern pots, old tea-cups — nothing, in fact, came amiss. 
She kept them during the day on the window-sills with a sunny 
exposure, starting with the window-sills in the east in the morning, 
and ending in the evening with those ii: the west. At night this 
array of pots and boxes reposed on the shelf behind the stove. 

It may be observed that, in with the tomatoes, the smallest 
children of the house had begged to insert a variety of other seeds, 
such as onion, pumpkin, and cucumber. They "just wanted to 




\\'ashin(; VI' FOR Dinner 



see how they would grow," and when these became troublesome 
they were pulled out. 






IV. WHEN SPRING COMES 



7^ 



Tomatoes have delicate constitutions, and it is not till some 
time after the garden was started that they are transplanted to it. 
Even then each plant has a shingle stuck up beside it to protect 
it from the noonday sun, and is watered regularly for several 
days. 

Now that the garden has been started, spring on the farm 
may be said to be fairly under way, and things begin to settle 
down to their ordinary warm weather routine. 

I suppose that in the general satisfaction that is felt over the 
fact that winter is past, the country dwellers can take the hard 
travelling and omnipresent nuul philosophically and with little of 
complaint. But when the warm, dry days of May come, with the 
green grass and blossoms, and new leafage in the oichards and in 
the wood lands, no season of the year is hailed with more delight. 







'■^^tii2-:,,..{ ..v,^/ 



V 



BACK-DOOR NOTES 



n^HE front of a farmhouse rarely undergoes any change. I do 
^ not count the gradual wearing away of the paint, and the oc- 
casional restoration of faded tints by fresh applications. I grant, 
too, there are exceptions, as in cases where the proprietors are in- 
spired to adorn the front of the house with a new porch, piazza, or 
a bay window, l^ut occurrences of the latter nature are compara- 
tively rare ; and as a rule the house is, to the i)asser-by, the same 
old house year in and year out. 

It is not so with the rear of the premises. If one will keep 
watch there, he will find change ccmtinual. A farmer seldom has 
room enough for his stock and crops, and his wagons and tools, so 
that everything is handy and to his liking. He always feels the 
need of an extra shed or two ; and if he finally gets that extra shed 
or two, he finds, after all, that he ought to have one or two more. 
When the need seems imperative, and there is not time or money 
for anything more elaborate, he builds a lean-to out of such boards 
and slabs as he can pick up about the place. 

Nearly every winter the farmer takes a few logs to mill, and 
has them sawed into boards and plank for his own private use. 

77 



V. BACK-DOOR NOTES 



7^ 



He stows theni under the l)arn, or on the beams in one of the 
sheds, where they may be handy against a time of need. 

Beside the fresh boards stored, there are quantities of second- 




iiACK-DooK Pets 



hand material and (jdds and ends set up in coiucnient eorners all 
about the rear farm-buildings, both inside antl out. It is not easy 
to sa}' just where all this rubbish comes from ; but there it alwavs 
is, and i( at times it suiTers de]')letion on the occasion of some 
building opeiation, this is only temi)orary. 

The average farmer is pretty sure to have a shop on his prem- 
ises, where he keeps a variety of the more common carpenter's tools ; 
and when circumstances call for a tool he has not, he can usually 



oj •• A BOOK OF COUNIRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

borrow it of some neighbor. The borrowing habit is a prominent 
characteristic of the small farmer, and the neighbois are many of 
them as well acquainted with a man's shop as the owner is himself. 
They borrow tools, vehicles, horses, harnesses, — intleed, almost 
everything, even to a half-day's use of the hired man. Once in a 
while there is a farmer who has such a thorough familiarity with 
a neighbor's premises, that he treats them almost as if they were 
his own, and on occasion he will borrow without the formality of 
asking. Some men rarely return a borrowed too], but allow the 
owner to come after it when he needs it for himself ; and there are 
instances where the borrower keeps the tool so long he forgets it 
has another owner. Me may go so far as to cut his initials on it. 

The workroom where the farmer keeps his car])enter's tools 
could fairly be called " The Old Curiosity Shop." It is a rusty, 
cobwebby place, with walls and ceiling hung thick with relics of 
the past. Quantities of other relics and rubbish are scattered 
about the floor. A good share of these accumulations in the shop 
are broken, or are stray parts of some article which has gone to 
pieces. This stuff is kept here partly because the shop serves as 
a catch-all for things that are in the way elsewhere, partly with 
the idea that these broken bits may come handy when something 
else breaks, and repairs are needed. 

As a matter of fact, things are always breaking or coming to 
pieces on the farm, and visits to the shop to find the wherewith to 
make whole or serviceable the thing broken are very frequent. 
The shop is in particular a place of resort on days of storm. Such 
days give an excellent o]i]^oi-tunity to tinkci" and make repairs, or 
perhaps to wash the farm harnesses, or build a new hen-coop. 

Hen-coops, it may be said, always assume importance with the 
advent of sjiring ; and at that time the agricultural paper taken by 
the farmer gives considerable space to explaining and illustrating 
desirable ways to build these domiciles. The simplest method is 
to make a coop by nailing two boards together in the shape of an 



V. BACK-DOOR NOTES 



82 



inverted V, and then tacking on slats across the sides. In the 
main, a man will confine his efforts to this style of architecture; 
but at times he \entures on the more elaborate schemes suggested 
by the papers, or works out an idea of his own. 

( )n some farms the hens take care of themselves as far as 
then- place of abode is concerned ; but on many places they not 
only ha\e their regular quarters, but these quarters are changed, 
made over, or tinkered, yearly. A new shant}' is built for them, 
or it is partitioned, a chimnc)' ]nit in, or the yard is extended, or a 
new fence [mt up around it. if the hen-}ard is surrounded by a 
slatted wooden fence, that fence is continually needing repairs, or 
some hen de\-elo})s unusual ix)wers of flight and flies ox'er. Then 




The Fakm Cult 



is it decreed that the fence must have an upper story put on it, or 
else it must all be torn down, and some of this new kind of wire 
fencing, that is advertised, nnist be bought to put in its jilace. 
Even that fence does not attain the perfection that was expected 



o ««A BOOK OK COUNTRY 

•J CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

of it, but requires a line of foot-boards to protect it at the base, 
and sometimes a bristling rampart of lath along the top to keep in 
the high-fliers. 

A good deal of temporary building and fencing in a small way 
is done on some farms. Has the farmer a small family of pigs ? 
He considers if he cannot build a little hovel for them "some- 
where out back," on the grass. Or he thinks it will be a good 
idea to pen in some calves in that neighborhood, or, it may be, a 
colt and its mother. After the structures erected have served 
their purpose, it commonly happens that they are allowed to take 
their own course in tumbling to pieces. The process is assisted 
by the farmer himself, who makes their ruins depots of supply 
whenever other building projects suggest themselves. 

Such things as these give to the rear of a farmer's premises a 
picturesque abandon which is often in striking contrast to their 
appearance from the road. The rear buildings are usually un- 
painted — at least the newest and smallest of them are; and their 
tints, therefore, vary all the way from the yellowest of new pine 
boards to the brownest and most weatherworn aspect that sun 
and storm and time can give. 

The modern farmer who can afford it, if he be not too economi- 
cal in his inclinations, paints his barn red when he builds new; 
but most barns go unpainted from the day they are put up to the 
time they fall to pieces. Not only is this unpaintedness of the 
rear view marked as regards the outbuildings, but it frequently 
■extends to the hotise itself. I do not refer so much to the houses 
which were last painted a half-century or more ago, nor to those, 
both ancient and modern, which never were painted. It is to the 
type of house that has the three sides painted that are in view 
from the road, but whose gable end, on the fourth side, is left to 
the tender mercies of the elements. 

The farmers do much of their own shingling, painting, and 
repairing, although there are always two or three men in town to 



V. BACK-DOOR NOTES o 

be had who arc very good carpenters or painters, l^ut your real 
Yankee farmer is a jack-of-all-trades, and can do these things 
fairly well himself. Nor does he always ha\e the money to hire 
the work done ; and whate\'er the state of his finances, it is not his 
habit tt) make expenditures rashly and without due deliberation. 

Another thing to be noted is that he never likes to shingle 
until it is absolutely necessary. Accordingly, he periodically arms 
himself with a few shingles, a hammer and nails, and, with a rope 
swung from chimney or ridgepole, makes zigzagging excursions 
over the roofs to patch the leaks. In some cases this patching 
process continues for many }ears, and the roof becomes amazingly 
rough in texture and varied in tone. 

Occasionally there is a man who, when he shingles, leaves 
the foot-boards up, and does not trim off the ends of the last 
row of shingles, which, therefore, are left projecting several 
inches beyond the peak of the roof. I suppose the explanation 
of this bristling peak is that the old ridge-boards were worn out, 
and the man has no proj^er material at hand with which to 
replace them. He jnits off the getting of them till a more con- 
venient season, and leaves the roof-stagings up that he may get 
to the ridge handily ; but the seasons come and go, and that 
" more convenient season " never arrives. 

If in what has been described there are hints of shiftless- 
ness or of over-close economy, it is to be remarked that these 
things are incidental, not general, characteristics. P^nthermore, 
it may be affirmed that the bov brought up on a farm where, 
from necessity or habit, a somewhat vigorous economy is prac- 
tised, has a much better chance to win success in life than he 
who is brought up under milder conditions. As to the aspect 
presented to the eye by the farmer's unconventional methods of 
building, much of it is \ery charming, i)oetically and artistically 
considered. Nor, in the main, is it offensive as a matter of 
thrift. 




VI 



FINANCIERING ON A S^IALL FARM 



FARM people have about the same money experiences as other 
people. There is a difference only in details. The chan- 
nels by which money comes are few, and are distinctly circum- 
scribed. The ways to spend money are endless, and the wants 
are sure to outrun all ordinary possibilities of income. 

The farm people often figure on what they would do if they 
had a million dollars ; but no farm people of my acquaintance 
have ever become possessed of such a fortune, and I do not 
know positively what they would do if chance brought it their 
way. When they have a few hundreds fall to them, they apply 
it to the farm mortgage, or, if there is no mortgage, they spend 
a small fraction of the money for something they have particu- 
larly wanted for a long time, and put the rest in the bank. 

A man with money at interest has some standing in the com- 
munity, and can take some pride in himself ; while it is a good 
deal of a bugbear to most to have interest to pay, and work a 
farm with a mortgage on it. There is much reason in this ; for 
many a farmer who assumes a debt, or has one bequeathed him 
with his farm when he is young, still has that debt hanging over 

85 



VI. FINANCIERING 
ON A SMALL FARM 



86 



him wlicn he is old. Others, who finally become free owners of 
their land, have to drudge with all their families half a lifetime 
to accomplish this end. 




His (JWX HOL'SEKEIU'ER 



The small farmer sells butter, eggs, an occasional fowl, garden 
truck, and apples and other fruit. He usually does not raise 
much of any one thing, and the money comes in driblets. Most 
of the land is given up to hay and corn ; but that is fed out to the 
horses and cows, and the money return is in the shape of a small 
amount received weekly from the sale of butter. The attempt 
is frequently made to increase the family income. .Schemes 
with that end in view are apt to be thought of in the winter. 



87 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



Things arc dull then, and large plans are made for the next 
season's work. It is easy to dream dreams ; but, when it comes 
to the work, it costs to make them real, and the feeling as to 
what is possible and desirable changes. Work crowds, the hot 
days come, and enthu- 
siasm melts with the 
snow on the fields. 
Even if a man does 
raise an extra lot of 
chickens, or is first 
with his pease in the 
market, it is hard for 
the family to realize 
that they have handled 
any more money than 
usual, for it goes about 
as quickly as ever. One 
or two seasons of effort 
in a particular direction 
is usually enough, even 
if the experiment is 
fairly successful. The 
man tires of it, and re- 
laxes into the former 
monotony, or turns to 
something still newer. 

It is the idea on a 
farm tliat it is possible 
to keep a dollar bill a 

long time, but that ninety-nine cents is bound to melt away 
at once, and most unaccountably. Break a bill, and the change 
is soon spent. Once they have a bill, many of the farm people 
treasure it, and only break it as a last resort. 




WoRKlNL. OVEK BUTTEK 



VI. FINANCIERING 
ON A SMALL FARM 



88 



It is supposed, too, that it is conijiaratively easy to pay day 
by day for wliat you l)u\'. hut that an account allowed to run a 
few montlis, or even a few weeks, is extremely difficult to catch 
up with, and that it is bound to be much larger than you had 
any idea it would be. Of course, when the bill is presented, the 
daily wants continue just the same; and to raise the money to 
cancel the bill, there has to be extra scrimping, or else a larger 
portion of the farm produce must hnd immediate market. But 
there is another way to nieet the tlebt ; that is, to pay a little 
on the bill and keep it running. Probably the account system 
is not economy for our farmers. They buy what the}' want when 
they have it charged. Otherwise the)' buy what they can pay 
for. If they have a dollar and a half, the}' can patronize the 
butcher on his weekly or semi-weekly visit ]il)erall}'. If they 
have only twenty-five cents, they have to select with great care. 

Some kinds of meat 
will go a long way, 
and by sticking to 
bread - and - milk sup- 
pers, and toast and 
griddle -cake break- 
fasts, they can get 
through a great many 
days without having 
much to do with the 
butcher. There is 
always the farm itself 
to draw from in the 
case of a money pinch. If tliey can't afford to buy from the 
butcher this week, they can use an extra number of home eggs, 
and cook one of the old hens. W-ry likely these things would 
have sold readily for more than would have been paid for meat, 
but that phase of finance does not often present itself. The 




Trading with thk Bi'tcher 



89 



• « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



feeling is that what tliey use off the farm instead of buying is 
so much clear gain. 

Whenever an exi:)enditure is made outside of the every-day 
routine, it is su[)posed this must be matle up by economy in some 
other direction. If 
Mrs. Farmer has a 
new dress made, then 
she must make the 
old hat do for another 
season, and do with- 
out other things she 
wanted. She tries to 
buy less meat and 
groceries, and may 
even spread her bread 
extra thin for a time, 
or do without butter 
altogether. Mr. Far- 
mer economizes, too, 
but he does not come 
down to quite so fine 
a point as butter. He 
is fond of butter ; and 
he only does without 
it when, accidentally 
or otherwise, there is 

none on the table. Likewise he puts two teaspoonfuls of sugar 
into his coffee, no matter how high the price of that article is, 
nor how certain his wife is, when possessed of the economizing 
spirit, that one spoonful is enough. 

There is always some one thing that a farm family which is 
at all progressive wants. As soon as they get that thiiig they 
begin to feel the need of something else. They want a new 




Something (".odd Cooking 



VI. FINANCIERING 
ON A SMALL FARM 



90 



Stove, or a new pump, or a new carriage, or an organ, a carpet, 
or something of the soit. In order to get the particular thing 
they happen to aspire to, they are apt to begin saving. They 
lay aside a dollar or two at a time, and use smaller amounts for 
expenses. But this method is uncertain ; for, like enough, in 
the midst of the saving something else presents itself that must 
have the money, or Mrs. Farmer and her daughter are impressed 




! HH Clothes for the Wash 



with the idea that they are getting shaliby, or out of style, and 
absolutely must go shopping. That wrecks the money hoard, 
and the family has to begin again. If they ever get enough to 
pay a half or a third down, they Iniy the thing longed for, and 



91 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



pay the rest a few dollars at a time. They antici|)ate taxes in 
the same way. For a month or two before the bill conies they 
are laying by something to pay on it ; l:)ut they rarely have 
enough to cancel it at once, and they meet it, as they do all 
their large bills, on the instalment i:)lan. 

Some families get 
the notion that the 
way to become rich is 
to be systematic and 
keep accounts. They 
talk it over ; and all of 
them, from the father 
to the small boy, are 
interested, and catch 
rosy gleams of fortune. 
They hunt up a little 
blank book with adver- 
tising on every other 
page ; and Mr. Farmer 
sharpens a new one- 
cent lead-pencil, and 
they all look on while 
he writes some head- 
ings. Then the blank 
book and the pencil 
are put on the corner 
of the kitchen shelf ; 
and after that they 
put down the number 

of eggs the hens lay each day, and everything they buy. Each 
member of the family shares in the writing, and what one 
forgets some one else is pretty sure to remember. The in- 
teresting time comes at the end of the month, when they all 




Washing Day 



VI. !• INANCIERING 
ON A SMALL FARM 



92 



put their heads together, and reckon up the expenses for that 
month. The figure columns are a little straggling, and the en 
tries are in several different styles of handwriting ; but, by tlint 
of a little puzzlmg and arguing, the accountants reach a result 
they can all agree on. Perhaps the family of four or five have 
spent as much as thirty dollars that month, in which case they 
are rather appalled, and go back over the lists to see what the 
leaks have been, and the)' determine to bring the amount down 
under twenty the next month. These figures would be too low 
an average U)V the year around, and of course they do not charge 
themselves for what the\- get off the farm ; but except when 
there is an unusual expenditure for a mowing-machine, a new 
piazza, a distant visit, a set of chamber furniture, or some of the 
other extras that people are likely to be taken with longings 
for, they think it no hardship to get along on twenty or thirty 
dollars a month on a small farm. The account-keeping has ne\'er 
brought sudden wealth to any of the small farmers, so far as I 
know; but it tends toward thrift, and is a good thing as far as 
it goes. 




Monday 




VII 



THE VACATION COUNTRY 



N one's imagination the country is very easily idealized. A 
vacation among the New England hills has its pleasures, but 
it is not one continual round of unalloyed delight. It is but a 
small fraction of the time that one's soul is thrilled by either 
the beauties of the skies or of the fields. As for discomforts, 
there is no place on earth where a man can get away from them 
altogether. Yet, if you take such of these vacation discomforts 
as you chance to meet with in the right temper, )'ou will find 
that they give your two weeks or more a not unpleasant spin 
on the whole. 

If vou like riding or walking, a rambling tour through the 
country, where you find each night a new stopping-place, will 
give you the largest returns in enjoyment and pleasant memories. 
If you settle down at some jiarticular place, your touring must 
be less varied ; though, if }'ou make a study of it, you will dis- 
cover at least a score of pretty drives in the vicinity. Of course 
you will go fishing over and over again, and perhaps will try your 
hand at hunting. Then the life of the town, the home life of 
the people, and their out-door work about the fields, have many 

93 



VII. THE VACA- 
TION COUNTRY 



94 



possibilities of interest ; and if you are not too overpowering in 
your style and too esthetic in your tastes, you will find much 
to sympathize with in the thought and habits of these countr)' 
dwellers. 




il\k'» Sv^'H^M -'^r 






Fishing 



There is something ver\- interesting and pleasurable about the 
quiet of a country village in its sleepy davs of sunshine, its dull 
days of rain, its lack of moxement and noise, and its blank lone- 
liness after nightfall. To a man in the right mood, who comes 
from the ceaseless rattle and business strife of the city, all these 
phases of country quiet are restful and refreshing. 

The country town I last became ac(|uainted with is topical 
enough to be described with some detail. It is eight up-hill miles 




A COINTKY KOAUWAV 



Q7 «« A BOOK OF COUNTKY 

^' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

from the nearest railroad station, nearly all this way through the 
woods, I'he central village is built on what is apparently the 
highest hill-top in the township. Vou sight it while still afar off; 
and the hill looks wonderfull}' large and steep, and the houses 
and the chui-ch so marvellously small that they suggest the little 
painted blocks of a toy village. There are apple orchards about 
the houses, and other orchards cling to the slopes of the hill. 
Stone walls divide the fields, and frequent shoulders of the un- 
derlying rock crop forth amid the mowing. Indeed, these ledges 
reaching out into the open air are almost omnipresent. The man 
who can find an acre free from them rejoices as though he had 
found a ])earl of great price, and will spend weeks with his ox- 
team rooting out and carting off ton after ton of the loose stones 
and bowlders that encumber the soil. The village on the hill 
consists of a white church, a white town hall, a number of white 
farmhouses, and several gayer or more gloomy dwellings, both old 
and new. One handsome spreading villa is the summer home 
of one of the great manufacturers of the country, who some 
seasons hardly stays there a full week. Two or three fine old 
mansions neighboring are likewise summer homes, and are occu- 
pied by families that have become well-to-do in the cities, and 
to whoni these homes have fallen bv inheritance. On a side 
street, in a sombre-painted old farmhouse, li\'es for three summer 
months a famous poet, writer, and j^reacher, who belie\es this 
particular town to be favored b)' nature abox'e any for at least 
fifty miles about. 

Among the rest of the hill-top buildings are one or two sum- 
mer cottages, the doctor's house painted yellow, the parsonage 
painted blue, and the two-story school-building painted brown. 
It seemed to me the white buildings looked best ; for, in color, 
the bright hues were too gay, and the dark ones too gloomy, for 
this quiet country village. 

The town, a few years back, had right in the centre a big 



VII. THE VACA- 
TION COUNTRY 



98 



white tavern, where the post-office and store used to be ; but the 
building burned down, and the keeper ot tlie tavern moved away. 
The merchant built for liimself a combination store and dwelling- 
on a side street, and had bay-windows put in, and painted the 
structure brown. He does not allow smoking, and is inclined to 
strictness with loafers, so that this particular country store has 
lost most of the time-honored features of such places. 

There is not much going on about town, as far as outward 




1 m-. 1'.lalk>mith 



noises and bustle are concerned. If you live there awhile, you 
will probably fall into the habit of tr)ing to make it convenient 
to step to the window- e\ery time you hear a team go past. 



99 



« • A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
t LOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



There is no movement on the street so humble but that it 
offers an interesting opportunity for conjecture as to what may be 
the business or pleasure on which the driver is bent. You may 
see in the morning- several farm teams, with butter-boxes and an 



: ^^^y^''^^H 




An Ox Team 



assortment of vegetables back of the seat, on the way to market. 
Then a boy goes past leading a horse. Probablv he is on the 
way to the little roadside shop of the blacksmith. Now you hear 
a team rattling along at so lively a gait that you almost have to 
run to get to the window before it is beyond sight. Ah ! that 
w\as the Jenkins's city boarders in that smart livery team the\' 
hired down in Millington. While you are at the window you see 
an ox-cart, loaded with hay, drive on the scales up where the sign- 
board is, at the corners ; and Deacon Cook, the storekeeper, comes 
out, and unlocks the weight-box with his kev, and puts on his 
spectacles to see that he weighs right. The deacon is a ver}- 



VII. THE VACA- ,QQ 

TION COUNTRY 

careful iiKin. They say he will break a cracker in two rather 
than cheat }()U or himself, when he is balancing the scales for the 
pound you ordered. After the load of hay drives on o\-er the 
hill, you notice Mrs. Smith, with a shawl over her head, walking 
across the road to call on Mi-s. Jones. She does not stay long, 
and she carries a dish with a napkin o\'er it when she returns. 
Probably she has been to borrow something in the grocery line. 
Country women often make calls of that sort on their nearest 
neighbors. 

l^efore you leave the window you see old Mr. Cobb hobbling 
along the sidewalk with his cane. He is a very old man, — let 
me see, is it ninety-two or ninety-three.'' — but he can read with- 
out glasses yet. It must be he is going to get last night's paper. 
Well, it's no use waiting to see him come back ; for he'll just as 
like as not stay there in the store half the da\', reading his paper 
and talking with the deacon. 

The great event of the day is the afternoon return of the 
stage. The dri\er has two or three or half a dozen passengers 
aboard. He has brought the papers and the letters, and bundles 
of dry goods, and, I'm afraid, bottles of wet goods too, for the 
thirsty of this temjierance town. He has done errands to the 
number of a dozen or two, and interested i)arties have been loiter- 
ing around on the store-steps for a half-hour, at least ; and from 
this time on, there is much coming and going in the store neigh- 
borhood, both on font and in teams. The stage still has a long 
journey before it. and will hardly get home before dark. The 
driver knows this, and he hops about in a very lively manner for 
an ok! gentleman. He hastens back to his place on the fi'ont 
seat, gives his horses a crack apiece with the whip, and is off. 

But these sensations in the village centre should not keep vou 
from wandering in the fields. There are high pastures to be 
visited, where you can look off to the very ends of the earth, or 
could if it had any entls. The sci"ubl)V slopes sweep down into 



lOI 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



the wooded valleys, and, beyond, the l)lue hills pile on each other, 
till, in the dimmest distance, they meet the sky. It makes the 
world look very large. 

Nearly all the fences are stone walls, and most of the walls 
have a wild hedge of briers and bushes growing along them. 
Some farmers are sufficiently thrifty to keep the bushes out, and 
the walls in good repair ; but such are shining exceptions. One 
might think that these 
stone walls would stand 
forever ; but the winter 
frosts and spring thaws 
tilt and topple them, 
and keep them grad- 
ually settling into the 
ground. As for the 
hedges in their vicin- 
ity, it will be worth 
your while to investi- 
gate them. You may 
be pretty sure there 
will be some berries to 
your taste in the tan- 
ifles. You can take 

o 

your choice of black- 
berries and huckleber- 
ries, and you can 
lengthen the bill of fare 
with choke-cherries and 
birch-bark and winter- 
greens. 

The roads on the hills are peculiarly interesting, both in them- 
selves and in their surroundings. The main roads travelled by 
the stages are kept in the best repair, and are the least pictur- 




Washing i 



VII. THE \ ACA- 
TION COUNTRY 



I 02 



esque. The road-scraper, with four horses attached, and two men 
to engineer it, goes over the road each year, anJ rounds it up a 
trifle, so that by a httle stretch of the imagination you can fancy 
it to be turnpiked. A gang of men follows the scraper ; and they 
visit with each other, and fill ui^ such holes as they find, and throw 
to one side, to be scraped up next year, such bowlders as they 
judge will impetle travel too much. One of the party carries 
an axe, and lops off the roadside bushes that reach too far into 
the path. 

A man had better think twice before he travels over these 




'rETHEKINC. THE CaLF 



roads in winter or in mud-time. He will be apt to lose liis 
tem|ier, even if he does not otlierwise come to grief. In summer 
they are quite ])leasant. Much of the way they are shadowed 



lO 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



by the woods, they are httle cut up by travel, and in the dryest 
time you will have but little trouble from dust. In the wooded 
stretches they are usually pleasantly moist and cool. The border- 
ing woods incline to monotony. They are almost always thick 




young growths of saplings on land cut off not many years back. 
The patches of tall woods that one encounters at long intervals 
are very refreshing. 

When you take a side road, you do not go a great way before 
you find the grasses creeping snug up to the roadwav, and a little 
farther on you come on stray patches of grass within the wheel 
tracks. Presently these patches become two continuous ridges, 
and the horse trots along between them. Some roads dwindle 
into mere lanes that are altogether grass-grown ; and, in many 
places, the bushes and scrubby apple-trees fairly arch the path, 



VII. THE VACA- 

TION COUNTRY ^°4 

and keep up a continual brushing on the sides and top of your 
carriage. These side roads have rocks and bumps in them, and 
remarkably steep pitches up and down the little hills ; and you are 
liable to meet a calf tethered to a roadside sapling, that on your ap- 
proach runs wildly to the end of its rope straight across the path. 

Not a few of these grass-grown byways were once well trav- 
elled, and had many houses linked along them. Everywhere are 
remnants of orchards, old cellar-holes, and the crumbling ruins of 
long-deserted homes. The majority of the houses still inhabited 
are ancient and weather-worn, and the farm-life has many of the 
simple characteristics of that of fifty years ago. The picket or 
quarter-board fences that have become very rare in the valley 
towns are still common. Refuse and unsightly litter are prom- 
inent in the home surroundings ; and great heaps of manure 
thrown out of convenient barn windows are frequent foreground 
features of the landscape, as viewed from the house. 

A well-sweep in the dooryard is not unusual ; and it is to-day 
possible to find, in Western Massachusetts, log houses inhabited, 
an open kitchen fireplace still in use, and a household where the 
wool for all the yarn that is knit into stockings and mittens for its 
members is prepared and spun in the home. In nearly every 
town is a woman who has a loom in a chamber or back room, on 
wliich she weaves the rag carpets for the neighborhood ; and, if 
you ride through the hill towns in the spring, you will see now 
and then a great kettle swung over a fire in the back yard, and 
tlie women of the household busy making soft soap, 

One would think that the ])eoi)le in some of these lonely and 
shaky old farmhouses were in the direst depths of poverty. But 
this is not always tlie case, even though the whole family is 
ragged, and the men's clothing is more patches than original 
cloth, and in-door comforts and amenities are almost lacking. 
Tliere are those of this class who are putting money in the sav- 
inir.s-bank riuht alone:. 



jQ- •« A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

' CLOUDS AND SUNSHINK 

Sunday is one of the most interesting days of the country 
week. Ouiet broods over the hills year in and year out ; but on 
Sunday morning the quiet is so exaggerated you would think all 
the people had moved away. At nine o'clock the church l)ell 
rings, and its peals go echoing far over the fields and jxistures. 
But there is not a whit more stir on the street than there was 
before. It is simply a reminder to the inhabitants that the Sab- 
bath has come, and a warning to prepare for church. 

A second bell rings at half-past ten ; and then people in their 
Sunday best begin to appear on the street, headed toward church, 
and from every approaching road come the teams of those who 
live at a distance. Buggies and two-seated market-wagons are 
the most common among the vehicles that drive up to the high 
church-steps to discharge their loads. There is a hum of visiting 
about the front doors and the hall within that knows no intermis- 
sion till the bell tolls and the minister comes. Then the last 
woman rustles into her seat, the doors are closed, and the little 
organ in the gallery pipes up with Old Hundred. 

But I do not need to dwell further on the day here, for the 
chapters following describe the Sunday services of a country 
church in detail. 




VIII 
A HILL-TOWN SABBATH 



"jS/IEETIN' begins at one o'clock," said my landlady. "We 
* ' used to have meetin' in the mornin' when we had a settled 
minister, but that was three \ears airo or more. Now we have 
that new man down at T^ictory Holler. He drives up, after he 
gets through down there, every Sunday. We can't support a 
settled minister any more. Those that go pay what they can, and 
then there's a chuich fund that Martha Williams left that brings 
in something. That fund can't be used only for church doings, 
you know. 

" Thev're all gone, jiretty much — all the old families that 
used to su])port the church ; and they don't get any such congre- 
gation as they used to get. Land ! I've seen that cinuch full 
many a time, gallery and all. But you take it a storm)' Sun- 
dav, and ncnvadays there ain't enough comes to fill two })ews. 
There's ]:)lcnty to go, though, if they only would go. They've 
kind o" got out o' the habit o' church-goin', someway, and don't 
take much interest — they'd ruther laze around home. I don't go 
myself ; but that's because I ain't got no horse, and I'm gettin' loo 
old to walk so fur." 

1 08 



I09 



• «A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



A little before one o'clock I set out alone for the church. It 
was a soft, lowery sprin*; day. l^obolinks were sin<;ing in the 
meadows, swallows were twittering about the eaves of the barns. 
At the houses I passed, the men-folks were sitting on the piazzas, 
or were wandering half aimlessly about the \ar(l and near fields. 
Usually they were dressed in their .Sunday best ; but that was 
because it was not a work-day, not because they had intentions of 
going to church. 

The meeting-house was a building of goodly size on a low hill- 




Getting Rkapy to Plough 



top. Little valleys and undulating farming-land were all about, 
and beyond these were wooded hills. The church was, of course, 
painted white ; and it had a pointed sj^re, green blinds, and at its 



Vlll. A HILL-TOWN j jq 

SABBATH • « « « • 

rear that invariable accomjianimcnt of the country church, a line 
of rickety horse-sheds. 

The front door was open when I approached, and on the door- 
step a boy was loitering. Near him, in the yard, stood a stoop- 
shouldered young man, with withered features, half-shut eyes, and 
open mouth. I asked him if there was to be a Sunday-school that 
da\'. lie made no reply, and gave no indication that he even 
heard me. I repeated the question, and the result was no better. 
It was plain that he was one of those whom the country people 
speak of as "luny." I turned to the youngster on the steps, 
and received an answer in the affirmative. Then I entered the 
church. Directlv within the door was an "entry" that extended 
the full width of the front. Here were three or four small boys. 
At either side a stairway led to the gallerie.s, and in one corner 
was a small i)ile of wo(td. Down the middle of the entry hung 
the bell-rope. 

The main room beyond had a box-stove in each back corner, 
that sent a long span of st()\-e-pi})e far across to the wall oi)posite. 
I sat down on an old hair-cloth sofa by one of the stoves, and 
awaited developments. The walls of the room had been recently 
painted in a jileasant yellow tone. The galleries were partitioned 
off from sight, but that they were there was evident from the 
rows of columns supporting them. At the farther end of the 
room was the low pulpit, with its black-walnut desk, and back of it 
an ornamental square of papering. The pews were white with 
brown tiimmings. They were doubtless furnished by the parties 
who occupied them ; for no two were carpeted alike, and in some 
the board flooring was entirely uncovered. Two rows of pews at 
the rear were slightly highci- than the rest, ami in a narrow open 
space before them was a small cabinet organ. 

Wheri I first entered, the room was occupied by an elderly 
man, his wife, and two xoung women. They had started a fire in 
one of the box-stoves. It did not go \'erv well, and the old gentle- 



1 1 1 



• « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



man had opened the stove-door to poke it. That let the smoke 
out. He was not a whit disturbed, and continued to poke till his 
women-folks be^ran to exclaim, and to insist that he should stop 




operations at once and shut the door. He was a very mild and 
amiable old gentleman, and he meekly did as he was bid. 

Next he brought in a ladder from the entry, climbed high up 
to a clock on the rear wall, and wound it with a resonant clicking. 
While he did this two of the women spread a communion-table in 
front of the pulpit from a large basket, and after arranging and 
adjusting things to their satisfaction, covered the service with a 
heavy linen cloth. Meanwhile, the boy I had seen on the steps 
outside came in, and asked me what time it was by my watch. 

"Ten minutes past one," I replied. 



VIII. A HILL-TOWN 
SABBATH « « « « « 



I 12 



" Well," he said, " one o'clock's the time for Sunday-school to 
begin, so I guess I'd better ring the bell if I'm ever goin' to." 

A moment later the bell was tumbling in its tower, and its 
summons went rolling out over the hills. I stepped into the 
entry, and found two boys tugging at the rope, and two more look- 
ing on. The bell-ringers pulled as hard as they knew how, so that 
the rope, when it left their hands, might fly high up toward the 
ceiling. They all seemed to enjoy this Sunday task very much. 
After the older boys were through, and the bell had stopped ring- 
ing, the smallest small boy took hold of the rope to see what he 
could do. He tugged and tugged, but brought forth not a sound. 
" I can do it," he said. " I //d7r done it." lie threw his whole 
weight on the rope, and tumbled with it to the floor. The reward 
of his persistence was a feeble twang from the l:)ell. This en- 
couraged him to keep on, and he produced at intervals several 
melancholy intonations 

When I went inside again, a young woman was arranging a 
bunch of arbutus in a ]nili)it vase. Then the wife of the elderly 
man who had wound the clock got all the occupants of the room 
together in the back seats, had her husband fix the fire once more, 
and then delegated him to invite me to join their Sunday-school. 
I was glad to accept the kindly invitation. 

Before we had fairly settled ourselves to work we heard voices 
in the shcathed-up gallery. " There are those boys up there get- 
ting all cobwebs,' said our leader; and she forthwith sent for 
them, antl had them brought in 

Our teacher read the opening exercises in tones sounding and 
oracular ; and the elderlv m;in followed with a feeble-voiced prayer, 
ending with the Lord's Prayer, in which all joined. In this, as in 
the responsive reading of the lesson, a few voices spoke with aud- 
ible decision ; but most were content with a gentle murmuring, 
while some of the xoungest barely muiubled, ami did very well if 
thev ifot in one distinct word out of ten. 



J J -, « « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

•^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

The asking ami answering of tlie routine ([uestions was next 
in order ; and a middle-aged woman took tlie two youngest boys 
into a pew beyond the stove. She sat in the seat in front of this 
infant class, and turned half-way around and leaned over its back 
while she asked them the list of cjuestions louiul on the i ight- 
hand page of the quarterly. The boys were either not interested 
or not very well i)()sted, for the teacher h.ad apparently to answer 
most of the questions she asked, herself. Conscience free and 
duty done, at the end of the list she escorted her class back to 
that in the rear i)i the room. 

We eight or ten older ones were more given to argument than 
the youngsters, and held more varied opinions ; but, even so, inter- 
est lagged, and the whole exercise was gone through with rather 
because it was the proper thing to do than because any enjoyment 
was found in it. 

The room was very quiet — so unlike the bu.sy hum of many 
voices in city and town Sunday-schools. Here was naught but 
the slow ticking of the clock, the snap and rumble of the fire, and 
the lonely voices of question and reply. We were not an uneasy 
class. Even the children did not change position often ; and our 
smallest member wandered no farther from the proprieties than to 
recline against his mother while he wound his lesson-paper into a 
roll to blow through. 

While questions were being put, we studied our quarterlies 
assiduously, and answers were given seriously and solemnly and 
only after due deliberation. These answers kept verv close to 
what was said or inferred by the quarterh-. When a member ven- 
tured an opinion outside of the lines there laid down, it was with 
the tone of daring possible heresy that would \ery likely be 
doubted, and called for exjjlanation or defence. There were va- 
rious attempts to give practical application to the points in the 
lesson, but they were not very successful. Some concern was 
expressed for the unsaved, and it was affirmed with great decision 



Vlll. A HILL-TOWN 
SABBATH « « « « « 



114 



that any j^erson wlio expected to he saved by good works alone 
was sadly deceived. Mention was made of harsh-mannered 
"people, with tongues like drawn swords;" but it was deemed 
best not to \isit wholesale condemnation on them, for there are 
'those who are like a chestnut burr — outside are the j:)rickles, 
but inside is the meat." 

The lesson was cut short to gi\e oppoi tunit}' to elect ofificers 
for the year ensuing". There were only a handful to take part, 
candidates weie few, and the election was simplicity itself. Our 
teacher had the honor of being chosen superintendent. She 




H ARROUlNr. 



would, without doubt, fill the ])lace faithfully and well ; but hei 
comment was, " Well. I'm sorr\' ! " 

" Whv .■* " asked the moderator. " What's the matter.^ " 



1 1 



« • A l;()()K OK COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



"Because I think you could 'a' done l)etter," was the reply. 

The other officers were elected ; and each of these made some 
half-jocose, half-serious remark on the result. That done, we 
sang a single verse from the quarterly, and scattered to the near 
pews in readiness for the regular church services. There were 




Planting Corn 

present thirteen women, seven men, and four small boys. The 
congregation was further increased by one man who came m late. 

Several experts in the singing line gathered about the organ, 
and I thought the\' did very well. Music in the axerage country 
church is apt to drag and drone; but the \-oung woman at the 
organ put excellent spirit into the hymns, and the choir seconded 
her efforts admirably. 

The minister spoke, without notes, from the text, "What hath 



VIII. A HILL-TOWN j . /r 

SAliBAl'H « « « • « 

God wrought ? " His manner was not halting, as is often the 
case of those who attemi)t extemporaneous sermons, and he was 
neither cHsnial nor oratorical. The incidents and illustrations, too, 
of his discourse weie freciuent and interesting. 

Conununion followed the sermon. Inhere was a hush even 
deej:)er than before when the minister laid the cloth aside, and the 
bread was broken, and the wine tinkletl and gurgled from the nose 
' of its hea\y silver urn, to be distributed by the single bent old 

man. The children were })articularly intent, and watched every- 
thing with widc-e}'ed interest. A collection was taken up after 
the communion ; and its natuix', like that gathered in the Sunday- 
school, was such that anything but coi'jpers looked lonesome. 

All rose to sing the final hymn. Like main' larger congrega- 
tions, they came up in a scattering, desultory sort of way, as if the 
hymn had caught tliem unawares in a naj) or in some profound 
cogitations that shut out all worldl)' routine of the present. 

After the benediction, meeting broke up and \isiting began. 
The clatter of tongues in sprighth' talk and exchange of news 
was in sharp contrast to the somewhat lugubrious atmosphere of 
the ser\-ice preceding. 'I"he tendenc\' was tor the women to 
gather in tlie hall, while the men went down to the horse-sheds, 
and \isite(l for a longer or shoiter time while getting out their 
teams. .Sometimes a man tlro\e up to the door, and no wife 
appeared. Sometimes the woman was ready on the church-stej)s, 
and no man ajipeared. The waiting woman might go so far as to 
look an.xioush' around the corner toward the sheds for her escort, 
iMit the man who had to wait did not usuallx' tlisturb himself to 
the extent of looking up the de]iiu|uent women-tolks. He would 
sit in his buggy or stand beside it, and await theii- ])leasure. The 
gradual dispersion of the congregation at length saw the last of 
the nine teams which had been in the sheds jog away down the 
road, and the church-door was locked tor anotlier week. 

When I returned to my stopping-])lace the meal, which ser\ed 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
^ '/ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

for both dinner and supper on Sunday, was bcini; [nit on the 
kitchen table. 

As I finished my apple-pie at the close of the repast, and pre- 
pared to rise, my landlady said, " Well, church was pretty good 
to-day, I should think from what you say. Mr. Dove's a smart 
preacher, and it's queer more don't go. Now, it you're goin' to 
set down to read, }'ou better go into the settin'-room. The win- 
dows look right out onto the road, and you c'n see the teams go 
by from there." 




^,„ r'/t 



^„..>:jC~-. 



IX 



SUNDAY AFTERNOON 



'T^HE afternoon that I make the subject of this chapter was 
spent in a little villa^^e in the Green Mountains. The family 
with whom I was stopjMni; was up to the average in that region, 
and their conversation and ways were no more rustic than those 
of a large part of our New England people who happen to be out- 
side the more modern, progressive currents of life. 

The household consisted of a stout, nnddle-aged woman, an old 
man, and a second woman, who was something of an invalid, and 
who kept to her room so that I did not see her at all. It was 
the middle-aged woman who owned the place, and who was at the 
head of affairs. She said to me, "This old man, here, he ain't my 
husband. I ain't got no husband. He ain't got no wife. He 
docs my chores. He's eighty-four }'ears old, too old to be good 
foi' much, but he c'n do small jobs, and kind of keep things re- 
paired up around. Uncle Gid ! you'll ha\e to gi\'e the pig some 
swill. There ain't nothin' else for him. Just lift the kittle off 
there in the back kitchin'. There ain't no need o' its bilin' all 
day." 

ii8 



121 



««A BOOK. OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



Uncle Ciu\ was a white-bearded, wrinkled old man ; l)ut, in spite 
of his years, he was still straight, and still retained a certain 
briskness in his mo\-enients. Xow he laid aside his newsi)a])er 
and spectacles, and went out in the back room. At the same 
time a small bo)- from the neighbor's came in at the dooi, without 
knocking, as is the custom among country people. The boy 
looked at me for a minute in speechless amazement. He was 
not used to strangers. Then he asked, " Is aunt Maria here.''" 

" You c'n go right into her room," said my landlady. The 
boy disappeared ; and she continued, " She ain't no more aunt than 
you be to him. But that's what they all call her round here. 
She ain't no relation to me neither; but she has folks out in 




A Drink at the End of the Row 



Nebrasky, and they pay me so nuich a week for takin' care on 
her." I could hear Aunt Maria's complaining voice saying, 
"Well, I can't go, you know T can't." 



IX SUNDAY AFTERNOON 



I 22 



" He's askin' her if she don't want his ma to take her to ride, 
I guess, it's so pleasant. Me won't git her though, 'tain't likely. 
She don't go out niore'n two or three times in a whole year. I 
guess she's talkin' about you now." 

"He ain't a minister, is he.''" Aunt Maria was saying. 

" She's deef ; and you can't make her understand, specially 
mornin's. I was tellin' her )ou went to meetin', aiul she's got 
the idea you might be the minister." 

The kitchen in which we sat had a yellow-painted floor, much 
worn in the middle of the room, so that the color was nearly gone 
there, and knots and nail-heads stood u[) prominently. The 
woodwork of the walls was painted blue, with red stri[nng. In 
one corner was a desk co\"ered with litter. Above the desk was 
a bookshelf, on which were two books and a \ariety of odds and 
ends; and neighboring that were a newspaper bracket, an insur- 
ance calendar, and a large looking-glass. On another shelf stood 
a tall, dark old clock, ticking meditatively. Under the clock were 
hung two patent-medicine almanacs. At the o})i:)osite side of 
the room was the dining-table, with a huddle of dishes in the 
centre of it, covered with pink fly-netting. The room contained 
three rocking-chairs, three common chairs of the old-time, straight- 
backed variety, and three of a more gentle type. The stcjve was 
on the hearthstone of an old fireplace, that extended well out 
into the room. Hehind it, against the wall, was a high, narrow 
wood-box, pasted over with wall-pai)er. The chief features of the 
long mantel above w'ere its dado of oilcloth and two lamps. On 
a nail near by were two scpiares of padded cloth to handle hot 
things with. The only picture in the room was a small one, of 
a monkey pulling nuts from a fire with a cat's paw. The frame 
of the picture attracted my attention. It was cox'cred with j^utty, 
which was stuck all o\er with shells, stones, buttons, silver pajjer 
from tobacco packages, sus]:)ender buckles, etc. " Where ditl you 
eet it .-* " I asked. 



123 



• «A I'.OOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



I made it," said mv landlady. "Didn't you know I had a 



littl 



e mjun 



" Injun " was her 
word for ingenuity. 

There was no fire 
in the stove. On it 
was a dish of apples 
that everyone was ex- 
pected to help them- 
selves to. During the 
warmer months the 
kitchen, in most 
homes, is used as a 
dining-room, and all 
cooking is done in 
the back kitchen. 
Of course, in many 
houses, there is no 
back kitchen to move 
into at the approach 
of hot weather ; and 
in such households 
one has to eat in the 
same sweltering, trop- 
ical heat that the 
cooking is done in. 
This is not very agree- 
able for the men, 
who come in at noon 

after a whole morning spent in the hot sunshine ; and it is harder 
still on the women, who have had to be over the stove for the 
past hour or two. 

At my stopping-place the back kitchen had much the unfin- 




Mendinc; the Fire 



IX. SUNDAY AP^TKRNOON ^^, 
1 24 

ished, catch-all a[)pcarancc that such rooms arc apt to have. It 
was a roug'hl}- hoarded room, with a low brown-beamed ceiling. 
In the little sto\e a hre was burniui'" which sent forth a slifrht 
snapj)ing and rimiblini; that one would hardly have noticed except 
in the quiet of a Sabbath afternoon, when e\'en the buzzing of the 
flies on the window-panes sounds loud. Thin wisps of smoke 
escaped from the cracks of the stove, and lent their odor to the 
air. At the side of the stove was a small red wood-box, with a 
pair of brass-handled tongs leaning against it. Various things 
hung behind the st(jve, — ajirons, a dust-pan, an old hat-rack, a 
tin match-safe ; and there was a shelf with a worn wing and a 
pair of shoes on it. Near the door was a little sink piled up with 
kettles and pails, with a towel on the wall handv, and a pot of soft 
soap on a convenient window-sill. Then there was a bench with a 
pail oi water on it, brought from the spring back of the house. 
Before the door was a husk mat. In one corner were a broom, 
a pan of shavings, and a hoe. In another corner were a heap 
of dirty clothes, a washboard, and a cloth-covered ironing-boartl. 
Shelves here and there were nailed to the wall, full of old crock- 
ery and odds and ends, and there were lines under the ceiling 
hung with other odds anil ends ; and thei"e were nails in the wall 
whereon were suspended old vests, baskets, paper bags, etc. h'i- 
nally there were three upright, splint-bottomed chairs that had 
seen better days. One of these chairs had a cushion, and on it 
lay the family cat. .She slept there nights, mv landlady said. 

About half-past two one of the neighbors called. He was a 
tall, thin man, dressed in his best clothes. My landladv intro- 
duced him as a man who " hatl travelled." "You c'n talk to him 
about everything," she said ; but I preferred to be a listener. The 
man took an a])ple, and sat down in a rocking-chaii-. 

" Heerd how Miss I-'adden is to-day .'' " asked mv landladv. 

" Miss h\Klden"s miserable," said the man. " Doctor Bugby 
said she would ne\'er ]i\e to see the lea\-es turn in the fall." 



125 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



"She's worked herself to deatli," coinnienled the other. 
" Done all her housework, and worked out o' doors too. Wdiat's 
Jim doin' .' " 

" Oh, he's just tinkerin' round the farm there. He ain't never 
done what he ought to 'a' done lor his wife. Likes to be u]) in 
the mountains skylarkin' around with his <^un too well. But he 
feels it some since Doctor Bugby says he can't do nothin' for 
her." 

" You don't believe much in doctorin', yourself, do you, 
'Lisha.^" questioned my landlady. 




Peeling Potatoes for Dinner 



" No ; if I'd gone to doctors, I'd been in the ground long ago. 
I ain't a well man, but I won't have none of these doctors foolin' 
round me. You bet I won't stand no such nonsense." 

" Waal, doctors don't know as much as they pretend to, I 
guess ; but you have to have 'em sometimes — in these 'ere kind 
of a thing like where there's cutting, you know." 



IX. SUNDAY AFTERNOON 



126 



" Ves, that's different. Did you know Martha Spinney was 
dead ? "' 

" I heerd last night. I didn't think she was goin' to die ; I've 
seen folks jess so, and they got well. She died sudden at the 
last, didn't she } " 




I'lantini, with a Machine 



" Yes ; Lord o' macy ! they say she died in a chair. I asked 
if she throwcd up anything. Hcrt, he was there when she died, 
and he said she didn't." 

" I'd nacherlx' think she would." 

"Waal, I guess she did, if ti"uth was told." 

The discussion of Martha Spinnc\""s death was prolonged, and 
went into details too uu])leasant to lepeat. The next subject 
lirouglit up was the cit\- ])co|)lc, who had Iniilt a number of fash- 
ionable suuiincr houses in the iicighboi'ing town. "Have \"ou 
ever been o\er theie wheie them cit_\' folks aii-.'" asked my land- 
lad\', turning to me. " It's oxer near Rainbow I-'alls the\' tell 




Paring A i' i-i.es 



^_ a « A COOK or COUNTRY 

~ -^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

about. T thought mcl)]:)e you niij^ht "a' been there. Thex- don't 
very frequent come b\- hei-e, ])ut I can tell 'em when the}' come. 
The)- ha\'e their barouches, and their nej^ro drivers, and their 
liorses' tails are bobbed ri_L;ht s(|uare off. ThcN' look different too. 
Then, sometimes, thev come up ridin<^^ on horseback, and the 
women ha\'e on long- habits ; and there's a groomsman follerin' 
behind, all fixed up in great style — white pants, black coat, and 
all such iLxin's." 

" They all go to the 'I'iscopal church over there, don't tlie\'.''" 
inc[uired the visitor. 

" Ves, and I went one day too. l^ut what kind o' sense is 
there in that T^iscopal service, I'd like to know, — all gettin' up 
and settin' down, and a long lingo that they go through tight as 
they can jump. Might just as well set down and hear a pa' eel o' 
geese. That's my notion o' things." 

About this time two other visitors arrived, and Uncle Gid 
came in with them. They were a young man named Lucius, and 
his mother, Mrs. Hapwell. They hitched their team to a p(xst 
t)utside tlie gate. 

"llurraw!" said Mrs. llapwell. "Here we air. Caught ye 
at it this time." 

" Come in and set down," said m)' landlad}'. 

"Been lookin' at the dayl-yas (dahlias) along," said the new- 
comer. "Yours are doin' a sight better'n mine." 

" I ain't seen you in a long time," said bdisha. " How are }ou 
now .'' " 

" I ain't in very good health," was the repl}', " rather slender. 
I've worked just like a ole nigger the whole week. Then I went 
away up into the lot where Fred's workin' aT^^dday, and yisterday 
I was clean beat out. I heard you'd come around again, 'Lisha. 
Why don't you git married .' " 

"Waal, do' know but 1 will, if you'll find me the girl." 

"There's the Tomi)kinses. It's kintl o' hard on the old man 



IX. SUNDAV AP'TKRNOON 



130 



tt) take care o' the hull on "cm. Vdu must j^o and spark up the 
oldest ^i;irl. llettv's fifteen. She thinks she's old enough." 

"'Idiat's all right, hut she ain't got any mone}'. I want to get 
some one that's got money — 1 don't care how old she is." 

Pretty soon after, I'^lisha left, and the others went into the 
sitting-room. 

" He wants to get rich all in a minute, don't he.'" said Mrs. 
Hap well. 




Mowim; thf Humr Lot 



"Waal," was m\' landlad\'s comment, "he must ha\-e some- 
thin' laid up 1)\' now. He's been workin' at engines, repairin' on 
'em, for a good many years, and lie's had big i)a\'. He thinks he 
may go to farniin' out now. He's a good, likely, stiddy fellow, f 
calcrlate. lUit he savs he ain't well at all." 



131 



« « A I500K. OK COUNTRY 
Cl.orDS AXD SUNSHINE 



"He cats too mucli — that's what's the matter witli liim, bv 
golly!" said Lucius. " If 'twan't for that, lic'd l)c all hunkcdory." 

" How old is he?" asked Mrs. Hapvvell. 

"Must be all of forty-fi\-e," said my landlady. 

"Guess he is," was the res]:)onse. "Why, Lord, he was goin' 
to school when 1 was ! Yes, 'Lisha's oxer fifty to-dav. L'licle 
Gid," said she, chang-ing the subject, " Lm most choked to death 
for some water; wish the land you'd go and git some." 

" Spring's right out north the house," said L^ncle Gid jok- 
ingly. " You'll find a gourd hangin' on the bush there." 

" Lll fix you, LIncle Gid," was the lady's reply, as she shook 
her fist at liim threateningly. 

" Can't you go and git a pail of water .' " ww landlady said. 
" Seem's if you might. I don't want to ha\e to jaw and blow 
and git mad just to git a pail o' water." 

Uncle Gid started ; and my landlady continued, " Lm thirsty 
myself. We had fish for dinner. Always dretful dry stuff, 
fish is. WHiat you doin' now, Lucius.'" 

"Waal, been i:)lantin' corn in the meader lot, — that's the last 
thing. Ain't but a dang few got their corn in yet. Rained 
like fury last night, didn't it.' I vow, I thought it would wash 
my corn all out." 

"Ansel's widow 's goin' to git married," said Mrs. ILapwell. 

" No, is she 1 " was my landlad}"'s resj^onse. " Waal, I knew 
she'd ketch some one. (rot Caleb Jackson, didn't she .' I heard 
he was goin' with her some." 

" Ma's been paperin' lately," said Lucius. 

"Yes," said his mother. "Every room's painted with blue, 
and I got blue papers to correspond." 

" I been makin' soap this last week," said \w\ landlady. 

"Have good luck.-*" asked the other lady. "Lucius," said 
she, looking out of the window, " what's that hoise stom])in' so 
for.' You go out and see what's the matter with that plug." 



IX. SUNDAY Al'TKKNOON j ^3 

"(iucss he thinks we've staid long enough," repHctl Lueius. 

" Waal, I don't know but we have," said his mother. " I 
told 'em we'd be home airly. You jest get unhitehed while 
I run in and see how Aunt 'Ria is, and then I'll be al(»ng." 

I have not reported all the afternoon's eonversation ; but these 
were real people, and I have kept very close to their real words 
and manner. The sitting-room in which they sat during the 
latter part of their visiting was low and slightly stuffy. It had 
a vertical-patterned wall-paper of light tone, and the woodwork 
was a grained yellow. On the floor was a large-figured carpet, 
in which red, green, and black were the i)redominant colors. A 
bit of oilcloth before each of the two doors, and a braided rag 
mat, and a long strip of rag carpet, protected the most travelled 
parts of the room from wear. Two small-paned windows looked 
out on the roadway. Before one of them, on a stand, were two 
wooden boxes, with young tomato-plants sprouting in them. 
On another stand, against the wall, were a Bible, a photograph 
album, a lamp, and two pairs of spectacles. There were two 
small tables in the room, occupied by several recent copies of a 
fashion journal and of a New York story-paper, with a few old 
books and magazines. Then there was a sewing-machine, with 
a gay patchwork-covered footstool ne.xt it, a sofa with a calico 
spread, and six old i)arlor chairs. Besides, there was a single 
rocking-chair with a calico cushion. A hanging corner-bracket 
held three books, three photographs, and a fancy box ; and a 
shelf was adorned with a number of advertising cards and medi- 
cine l)ottles. On the walls were a mirror, a portrait in a deep 
black-walnut frame, and six chromos, some in ancient frames, 
some simply tacked up. The picture which attracted my at- 
tention especially was entitled "Lovers' Happiness." Two doll- 
like figures were ])rominent. The young man was dressed in 
blue and red and yellow, and had long hair parted in the middle. 
He was on one knee, holding the hand of a girl dressed in white, 



J ^ ^ « « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

^■^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

who stood before hii)i. l^ehiiul the girl was an urn, and in tlie 
distance lay a lake. No pains were spared to make the picture 
entirely tjallant, graceful, and romantic. Pictures (;f this sort 
are common in their homes ; but whether it is because there is a 
liking for the gaud\' sentinientalit}' of them, or because, having 
wandered into the house, they hate to throw them away, is un- 
certain. The room had a fireplace originally, but it was now 
bricked up. " Used to have fireboards put up there that we 
could take down," said my landlad)'. " l-Jut they'd git afire, so 
we had the bricks put in." 

This sitting-room was a little behind the average in that it 
had no organ, and in many households there would ha\'e been 
more books. Most families take a daily or a weekly, published 
at the nearest big town, to keep them posted on neighborhood 
affairs in all the region round about. Besides, they are apt to 
take a religious denominational pa[)er, and the Yoiitlts Companion. 
Once in a while some other papers of higher or lower character 
are taken, and an occasional magazine. There are the Sunday- 
school and town libraries to draw from, and you can find people 
who are students and lovers of good literature ; but in the main 
country reading is a hit-or-miss affair, with \'ery little aspiration 
in it, and the home libraries, in nine cases out of ten, are prett)' 
dismal picking. 

Many houses have a shut-up parlor, only opened on company 
occasions, where all the stiffest furniture and choicest treasures of 
the house, in the wa)' of vases, pictures, and hair wreaths, are kept. 
The blinds are always closed on that corner of the house, to keep 
the sunlight from fading the carpet and the upholstered rocking- 
chair. It is an apartment to be admired, not used ; and, to one 
not enamoured with that sort of thing, its twilight and close odor, 
and its unnatural orderliness, are very unpleasant. However, it 
seems almost a necessity for a human being to have a hobby of 
some sort ; and, if a housewife's mind is not capable of aspiring 



IX. SUNDAY AFTERNOON 



134 



to an\thini;- better than a shut-up parh)r, it is no great matter. 
'I'he parlor is harmless, and it is the woman's hai)iMness. But the 
tendency now is to turn all rooms into use, and shut-up parlors 
are gradually becoming less prexalent. 

Sunday afternoon is spent in various ways in different commu- 




bUNDAV Al- TEKNOON 



nities and in different households. The visiting described in thrs 
chapter is only one ty])e. In most homes it is a time of dozy 
quiet. The older people lay down on the sofa and take a nap, or 
fall aslec]) in the rocking-chair while reading the newspaper ; the 
mother reads aloud to the uneasy small children ; the oldest 
daughter plays hymns on the organ ; the young man, after an 
appropriate length of time spent in his room, prinking, appears m 
all the glory of starch and jierfumery, and gets out the top-bugg)^ 



« « A I'.OOK. OF COUNTRY 
■^-> CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



and goes to take his girl to ride ; the hired men loaf in the shade 
of an apple-tree back of the house. 

With the approach of dusk, things take a livelier air, the 
languor of the da)' is in part thrown off, and the eveinng work 
at the barn atid about the kitchen begins, whiU- the children are 
allowed to run and play a little out-of-doors, if they are not too 
noisy about it. 




X 



A CHRISTIAN ENDP:AY0R MEETING 



n^HE church where the luicleavorers met was on a hill-top ; and, 
^ exce|)t for those who li\ecl in the few near houses, everyone 
had to climb to get there. The time of meeting was seven o'clock. 
On the October exening that I was present, I arrived a half-hour 
earl)-. The exening was clouded, and it was already tlark. Cheer- 
ful sparks of light shone from home windows, and glinted through 
the blinds of the church. In the hallway that was acnxss the frout 
of the building was a numerous group of boys and men, some 
standing, some sitting on the settees along the walls. This 
grou[) usuallv did its before-meeting visiting on the church-steps. 
There they could not onlv observe with detail all the new arrivals, 
but could contemplate them as they approached from atar. How- 
ever, the wind blew this night too keen and chilling. 

In the mam I'oom of the church the two stoves in the back 
corners were going full blast ; and the heat, in conti'ast with the 
frosty an- without, made a thick mist gather on the small, old-time 
panes of the windows. Newcomers from the cold outer darkness 
alwavs got into the corners b\' the stoves when they first entered ; 
but two or three minutes in that Ixiking heat were usually sufficient. 



I "i! 



• « A BOOK OK COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



and then they scattered. Tliree h\g lamps hun::;- from the ceiling 
along the centre of the room, and put the place in a twilight glow. 
A low irallerv ran around three sides of the church, and at thj 




back of the gallery some of the earlier arriv'als were rehearsing 
hymns to sing on Monda\' at a funeral. The walls of the room 
were ]:)apere.l with an old-fashioned dado, that in the up])er parts 
showed stains of leakage from the roof. At the farther entl of 
the room, in front of the inilpit. were a table and two chairs ; and 
there the leader of the exening presentl}- took his place. A small 
organ was in the open space near b\-, antl the leader asked one of 
the \'oung women of the audience to pla_\' it. 

There were se\'enty-fi\e or eighty i)eople i)resent, and they 



X. A CHRISTIAN « « o 

ENDKAVCJR MKKTING -^ 

about tilled the central mass of seats in the church. The gal- 
leries and the seats under the galleries were x'acant. Probably 
fully as man}' were i)resent as had l)een at ser\'ice in the morning. 
The}' were mostl)' young people, though a few of middle age or 
past were sprinkled among them. 

All through the service there was frequent singing from gospel 
hymns. Sometimes the leader selected the hymn, but more often 
members of the audience asked for fa\-orites. Many sang these 
hymns from mcmoi-\-, without the aid of l)ooks. The tunes selected 
always had an easih' caught me]od\'; and the rendering was usuallv 
pleasingh' simjile, and often it was unconsciously pathetic. The 
hymn-tunes in the morning ser\'ices in the average countr\' church 
are ajit to be slow-moxdng and dull, and this makes the lightness 
and ease of the ex'cning music seem in contrast doubh' i.ileasing. 

The leader made two short addresses on the toiiic of the day ; 
and when he read a selection from the Bible, he made comments 
on the te.xt as he went along. Most of the }'()ung men present 
wore starched linen and store clothes of com[xu"ati\'ely recent \)U]-- 
chase, and there was a Sunda}' slickness apparent about their whole 
persons. Indeed, one or two had an outwai'd immaculateness and 
stvle that would put some of our city youth on their mettle to 
com])ete with But the leader seemed a sort of John the l^a[:)tist, 
who "came not clothed in soft raiment." 1 fe had an almost every- 
day, backwoods bushiness and rudeness of e.\teiior that were C[uite 
picturesque and interesting. What he said showed thought and 
sense. Me was ver\' well read in some dii-ections, and 1 was told 
he had a fondness foi* cpioting from Homer and from histoi'X'. lie 
had an impediment in his .speech, but this r.ithei' adtled to the 
rough vigor ot his short sentences. 

He said: "The subject to-night is, 'How Chidst helps in our 
daily tasks;' oi', in other words, how i-eligion helps, how hope 
heljis. It don't matter whether \'ou run an engine, keep a stoi'c, 
teach school, or fai^m it, religion ought to help }-ou. I beliexx' in 



Ill « « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

a practical rclii;i()n. Unless religion can help us in our tasks, it 
can't at any cjther time." 

Several men and several women spoke or prayed, or repeated 
verses of Scripture or of hymns. The prayers of the men were 
usually phun and straightforward. In one of the prayers a bit of 
poetry was quoted. I thought it came in very effectively, but I 
learned later that it was quite offensive to some of those present. 
They could stand almost anything but praying to God in ]X)etry. 
The women were less clear than the men in what they said, and 
their speech was inclined to be light-voiced to a degree that 
approached inaudibleness. 

Between the closing remarks of one member and the opening 
ones of another, there were apt to be solemn silences, in which the 
ticking of the clock, uneasy rustlings among the children, and a 
slight crackling from the stoves, were very apparent. 

The leader had distributed a number of paper slij)s with 
questions on them among the members, and the replies to these 
occupied a part of the time. I make some quotations from what 
was said. 

A woman spoke thus : " Christ doesn't change a bit. He's 
always the same. He's just the same on Monday as he is on 
Sunday. I'm glad I can sing to-night, — 

' I have entered the valley of lilcssint;.' 

Christ is the light of the world. If there's one here to-night that 
knows not that light, I wish he would open his heart now, this 
very hour, and let it in. He's knocking at your door. He's wait- 
ing still for you. Oh, could you treat any earthly stranger as 
you treat him — keep him always waiting outside your door.' All 
you've got to do is to say, ' Yes, Lord,' and he will let you in. 
Get that salvation, so freely promised, in your heart. You have 
no friend on earth so dear to you as him. Why don't you let 



X. A CHRISTIAN « « 
ENDKAVOK MKETING 



142 



him come in? \\'h\- always keep him waiting;"? It is sweeter to 
trust in Jesus than not to. He wih carry ah }()ur Ixirdens." 

Another woman wlio rose to spealc had so mild a voice that 
what she said was only an indistinct murmur to all except those 
very near her. She closed what she said with a prayer. 

A good deal of whisi)erin<4- and some low tittering was done 
behind me, in the rear of the room, while this woman spoke ; and 
in part this whispering was joking comment on the speaker. One 
young woman near me bowed her head during the j^rayer on the 
seat-back in fiont of her, and a companion whispered, — 

" I'll tell you when she gets through ;" then added, to the girl 




.111 IN.. IN A l,iiAL> Ai ii;k' ."^riri:!; 



on her other side in the same seat, " She's snoring," meaning the 
one with bowe 1 head. 

1 learned that the sitters in the hack of the room made their 



143 ••A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



jovial inclination apparent quite often, and that sometimes certain 
of tlie more sedate and older attendants sat among them to 
encourage order. 

A third woman said : " If we have Christ within us he helps 
us. I'.very day he is a help. In my own experience, only the 
other day, 1 had something come up that shows how he hel])s us. 
It was something that I didn't see how I could do. Then I prayed 
to God to help me do it just as willingly as if it was a pleasure. 
After that I did it without any trouble at all. When little trials 
come up in my daily tasks, it is a great comfort to lift up my voice 
in a prayer for help. Yet we must live a life of ])rayer, or this in- 
dwelling of Christ won't help us. The way Christ helps me is 
simply by the assurance that I can have his help continually if I 
seek it." 

The man who followed this speaker said : " It costs something 
to be a Christian. Some point their hnger at the man who be- 
comes a Christian, and say, ' He's a hypocrite.' The world sneers 
at him. But we must live up against sin and the world. We 
must keep a straight course because he gives his daily help. If 
we put our trust in him. he will lead us safely and surely." 

The question on the paper of the last one to speak was, "How 
does Christ help you to help others in their work ? " He said, 
" Christ helps by his sjMrit within us. He helps in bringing sal- 
vation to others by working on their spirit." 

It was now close to quarter of nine, and the leader rose to 
make the final remarks. •• I am very materialistic in my idea.s," 
he said. " We've all got to earn our living. There's none of us 
here at this meeting that can live without work. We've all got to 
go at it — and it's a good thing. Work is good for us. Now, 
how does Christ help us in our work ? If you want to find out 
the value of a thing, use your imagination. Supposing the light 
of the sun should be suddenly quenched, what sort of a state 
would we be in ? Supposing the light of the world, Christ, had 



X. A CHRISTIAN o o 
K X 1 J E A V < ) R iM !•, liT 1 X G 



144 



never lived, how would it be with \is now' When you go home 
to-ni<.';ht what will be the first thing youv eyes will see when vou 
get inside the door? It will probably be some eon\-enience — 




From thit Havfield 

something to make work easier, or to make life more comfortable 
or pleasant. You owe that to the l^abe of l>ethlehem. We owe 
every iiu'ention that makes our modern life so much more worth 
living than the life of the ancients to the Christian religion. 
What were men doing in iMigland years ago.' Till the Reforma- 
tion came they were continually fighting. Christ's law means 
peace. It teaches good behavior. We owe a great deal to the 
Christian religion. ICvery one was once quarrelling, burning, kill- 
ing;. We would have a state of heathenism if it wasn't for the 
Christian religion. We are all better for it. 'Idiere ha\e been 



lAZ ««A BOOK OK COUNTRY 

^•^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

quite a number of testimonies to-niobt. You haxe told liow 
Christ helps you. Christ will help you in the great battles of life. 
He will give his help in the little every-clay trials. We need it. 
When we are cheerful, things go easy. When we are downcast, 
things go hai-d. Then you ma\- think _\'ou haxen't a fiiend in the 
world, but you have. It's God ; it's Chiist." 

The meeting was then biought to a close. People fell to \-isit- 
ing, and the audience drifted loiteringly toward the back part of 
the room and out into the cold night. A scud of snow was whirl- 
ing through the air. 'l"he dusk\' groups from the chui'ch huddled 
their wi'aps about them, bent their heads against the blast, and 
hurried away across the roadway or along the paths. ()thers 
bundled into the wagons brought up to the church-steps from the 
horse-sheds. Then the inner lights were turned out, and the 
church was left blank and dull and deserted. 




XI 
THE MINISTER 



T'lll^ country preacher is a man of '^ood education and of upright 
^ character, and he has the respect of his fellow-townsmen. 
He is apt in many ways not to be practical, — not to have a keen 
understanding of business and of life ; yet his management, or 
quite possibly it is that of his wife, of his home affairs is rarely 
otherwise than thrifty, lie does not suffer from want ; and when, 
late in life, he retires, he may have accumulated a competence. 
The minister has to economize, it is true ; but in that he is very 
like most of his congregation. He is pretty sure to be married, 
and to have a familv to whom he is ambitious to give a good edu- 
cation. After the cliiltlrcn get through the town schools, the 
e.\i)ense of sentling them to the higher institutions of learning is 
considerable; and it is in those years that the minister's coat gets 
most threadbare, and then it is he feels most keenly the impor- 
tance of having his salary paid promptly. 

'i"he minister's children are in mo.st instances cleverer than the 
average. There are cases of black sheep, but they are not com- 
mon. Nearly always the minister's children are quick-witted and 
capable, and are not much gi\cn to sowing wild oats. After their 

146 



_ .Q ««A BOOK or COUNTRY 

4y CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

education is finished, they turn to school-teaching, at least at 
first ; and, whatever their final employment, they usually do well, 
even financially, unless it be a case where a son follows in his 
father's footsteps and becomes a minister. To become a minister 
is synonymous with remaining;- i)oor in nine cases out of ten. The 
ministry is not a thin<^ to y,T) in to for money-making. Still, I 
fancy the country minister's income is u[) to the average of that of 
his parishioners. If some of the farmers who sit under him get 
more money for their work in a }ear than their ])astor, it is be- 
cause they are cleverer in their calling than he is in his. But if 
the minister is bright and progressive, he does not stay in the 
country. He climbs the ladder that leads to larger towns and to 
more wealthy churches. 

The average country minister is not a man of vigorous individ- 
uality. He is mild in speech, thought, and action. He does not 
stir men up to battle ; he is not very original in his thought. His 
sphere is more that of the nurse ; he is rather soothing, on the 
whole, even when he talks about the fiery pit, and the broad road 
that leads to destruction. He may set a hearer's conscience to 
pricking a little at times ; but that is less because he is particu- 
larly keen, than because the hearer's nature happens to be par- 
ticularly sensitive. One can usually come away from a sermon 
with his self-esteem fortified rather than humbled. 

" Practical sermons," that is, sermons that touch directly the 
problems of every-da)' life, are bec<^ming more common ; but in 
the country pulpit the theological sermon is still the rule. God, 
his ways and purposes, and the plan of .salvation, are dwelt on 
with great detail ; and God's dealings with men, past, i:)resent, 
and prospective, are all settled with remarkable certainty. The 
preacher seems to understand the geograj^hy of heaven and the 
mind of God much better than he understands the virtues and 
shortcomings and needs of his own town. One of his greatest 
pleasures is the dissecting some obscure passage of Scri])ture, and 



XI. THK iMINlSTER 

showing up the true meaning of it, so that some sermons arc like 
a bean-soup made up of one bean to four quarts of water. 

I suppose a "practical" sermon has possibilities of rousing 
antipathy in the congregation, which the minister is inclined to 
avoid. He is on safe ground in theology, unless he is vigorously 
independent and progressive; and the country j^reachcr is not 
often that. If he has heresies, they are mild ones — interesting 
matter for a rather colorless argument with the deacons. 

Of course the preacher has his critics. He is a man whose 
ways and .sayings are sharply watched ; and I ne\er have known 
the i:)eople of a church to be united in liking their nnnister until 
they had lost him. J^ut it is not his theology that troubles them. 
It is his personality, — he is to(^ sober, or too lively; doesn't ges- 
ture enough in his sermons, or gestures too much ; visits at the 
house next door oftener than he does at our house ; i)reaches with- 
out notes and is stupid, or is stupid because he can't preach except 
with his written sermon before him ; and, worst of all, it may be 
his flock doesn't fancy his wife. At an)' rate, some like, and some 
dislike him ; and some avcnd him, and some ad\ise him ; and, take 
it altogether, he often has a " hard row to hoe ; " while his wife, 
pulled about by all the fuss)-, opinionated, or assertive women of 
the chui"ch, and expected to take all the responsibilities they see 
fit to put upon her, is as little to be en\'ied as her husband. 

In the case of a minister who is )-()ung and unmarried, the 
parish feels sf^ecial interest in observing whether he discovers an 
affiliation for any of the young women of the church ; and a girl 
can hardly be ordinarily considerate in her attentions to him with- 
out its being said that it is " shocking the way she runs after the 
minister." Every girl who is getting along in her twenties is cred- 
ited with an ever-])resent purpose to "catch" some one; and there 
is supposed to be a fresh flutter of hearts among these young 
women ever}' time a marriageable man moves into town. Very 
likely there is a fraction of truth in this view ; anyhow, the advent 



151 



• « A H(H)K OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



of a disengaged young minister, whether it makes maiden hearts 
pit-a-pat or not, does set tongues wagging, and keeps them wag- 
ging till he relieves the public mind by marrying. 

The country pastor feels in duty bound to be social, to visit 




his people at their homes, and to be on hand at all entertainments 
given in connection with the church. He is, or is supposed to be, 
prominent on all such occasions, and is expected to be cheerful, 
and even jovial, however dismal he feels. But there are compen- 
sations — at the religious meetings it is entirely in keeping to be 
solemn to the point of mournfulness. Most ministers cultivate a 
sober demeanor, and there is usually an artificial setness and 
droop about the mouth that is due to their calling ; but they are 
not, as a class, so dismal as you might imagine from their ser- 
mons. When two or three of them get together, they spend a 
good deal more time telling each other funny stories than in 
talking theology. 



XI. THE MINISTER 



152 



The children of the church stand in considerable awe of the 
minister. He beloni;"s to a sei)arate world from theirs, and his 
pul]:)it manner and the matter of his sermons are pretty much out- 
side then- understanding;-. When the children i;et well a]on<;- in 
their teens, thev may really be afraid of the minister, and will sys- 
tematically avoid him. If he calls at the house, they may even run 
to the barn and hide in the haymow, or take to the woods it the 
woods are handy. The fear is that he will want to talk religion 
to them, and want them to join the chui-ch. Idiere is somethini;- 
\ay,"ue and mysterious about religion and joining the church, and it 
makes them ver)' uncomfortable to talk with the minister on such 
subjects. They know little about it, anyway, and cannot do much 
but to agree with what he says. They have always heard that what 
he says is so, and they supi^ose it is so; and at the end of the halt- 
ing discomfort of these talks the young person is likely to agree to 
join the church. 

In old-time sermons, within the memory of those now li\-ing, 
there used to be a great deal of brimstone, and the wrath of (iod 
was found a fruitful tojMC to dwell on. Now sermons have a mel- 
lower tone ; and (lod's wrath, though not forgotten, is left as a 
mist\- background to Ihs lo\-e. Scares are not much used except 
in times of revival. Then the feelings of the young people with- 
out the fold are harrowed unmercifull}-, and in a successful meet- 
ing there is an undertone of hysterical excitement that is very 
fruitful in providing future church-members. 

Hut the usual Sabbath discourse is soothing and prosy ; and the 
hearers rarely show anv special feeling about it, either of enthusi- 
asm or of disagreement. Still, there is always a moral tinge to 
what the minister says, and in a gentle way it has its uplifting- 
effect. Probably this and the exami^le of the ])reacher's own 
good character count foi- a good deal in the long run. He might 
do better ; so could almost every one, no matter what the call- 
in <r is. 




PiTCHIM, L>0\\N Ha\ lllK THE LOWS 



155 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



Unless the minister is a very younf^ man, or newly settled, he 
is elected to the school committee, very likely is chairman of it. 
That necessitates his spending a day every now and then visiting 
schools. The one or more schools in the home village he walks 
to, but those in the outlying districts he always goes to in a team. 
Our Americans are not much at walking — only tramps walk, and 
they will steal or beg 
a ride when they can. 
The higher a man's 
position, or the greater 
his wealth, the less he 
depends on his feet. 
You may often meet 
an English clergyman 
walking leisurely along 
the lanes and roadways 
about his parish, and 
he may be out on busi- 
ness or only on pleas- 
ure. But it is other- 
wise with our New 
England clergy ; the 
minister who walks 
much must be exu- 
berantly youthful or 
c i"a n k }' , very 1 i k e 1 }' 
both. When a min- 
ister has reallv settled 
in a place, and is mar- 
ried, and things take 

on the calm that makes it look as if there lay his life-work, he 
begins to be oppressed with the vacancy of the little barn back of 
the parsonage. He longs for a horse. The result is that he buys 







Getting Corn fok the Sii.o 



Xi. THE MINISTER 



156 

a steady-goin<; creature that does not cost too much ; and I think 
lie takes a good deal of satisfaction in the ownership, and in tak- 
ing care of it. The horse is one of the sober, jogging sort — 
meditative, like its master, one that keeps along somewhere near 
the middle of the road, no matter where the driver's thoughts 
wander. Vnr a minister to buy a fast horse, or one that is 
frisky and coltish, would seem to indicate that he himself had dis- 
tinct moral lacks. Anyway, one could be quite sure that he had 
mistaken his calling. Frequently a minister is not satisfied with 
the possessicm simply of a horse, antl he invests also in a cow. 
With a cow and a horse in the barn, and a garden near h\, and a 
bit of grassland adjoining which the cow can be tethered on, the 
life of the country parson is very well rounded out. 

In case the clerical member of the school committee does not 
own a horse, there is always a neighbor wdio has a creature of 
proper soberness ; and this neighbor will let the horse to him for a 
very modest sum — perhaps fifty cents, perhaps twenty-five cents, 
for a half-day. The school committee in country places are peo- 
ple of fair intelligence, but rarely of special culture. Of teaching, 
as a science, they know almost nothing ; and they have many of 
the old-fashioned ideas that are the result of their experience in 
the kind of schools they attended in their youth. .Still, a com- 
mitteeman is not backward about criticising. He tells the teach- 
ers how to teach, and he questions the scholars in such ways as he 
calculates will bring out their wisdom or their lack of it ; and 
finally makes them a little speech, in which he gives some moraliz- 
ing achice, and says he "is pleased with the general ap]K\arance of 
the school." The teachers feel moie worried than helped by 
the visits, and I would not wonder if there were teachers who had 
a cry over some of these \isits afterwards. There are committee 
men and women who are almost brutal in what they will say and 
do; but, more usually, they are not very sharp-edged, and some of 
them like to tell funny stories and crack jokes with the children. 



157 



««A HOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



The minister is apt to be more considerate than his farmer col- 
leagues ; yet his ministerial dignity is sometimes rather oppressive, 
and most teachers are sure to be more thankful when he goes 







FiLLiNc. THE Silo 



than when he comes. The minister is very certain to get for his 
school work as much as fifty dollars a year, sometimes, it ma\ be, 
as much as seventy-five or eighty dollars. 

Weddings are another source of income. Probably few cou- 
ples come to him who are so niggardly as to put him off with the 
lawful fee of one dollar and a half. He is pretty safe for a five- 
dollar bill, and may even hope for a ten. I do not think a minister 
enjoys weddings, — few of those most concerned do ; it is only 
the sightseers and the gossips, and they find a certain enjoyment 
in a funeral. But he cultivates a cheerful aspect, even if, in the 
party that follows the ceremony, he is at a loss what to say, and 



XI. THE MINISTER. ,_0 

i5« 

what t(» do with liimself. Things might be a good deal worse, and 
he would still rejoice in freqtient weddings for the financial gain 
there is in them. 

Other extras come to the minister in the shaj)e of an occasional 
present of choice vegetables from his farmer hearers, or a piece 
of meat from a recent butchering. Once in a great while, too, the 
people may be moved to make up a purse for him, or to have a 
regular surprise party of gi\ing. 1 have read about the terrors of 
donation parties; but I think their more offensive features are now 
to be found mainly in the j">ages of humorous literature. 

As a rule, the countr\' church finds hard work in raising even 
the small salar)' it agrees to pay, and the minister has to wait for 
his money. This is very unpleasant ; and some ministers, every 
now and then, when things are at a worse pass than usual, will 
preach a sermon on the virtues of fulfilling obligations and paying 
one's debts promptly. 

When a minister leaves his chiu'ch to go to anothei", he 
preaches a farewell sermon, in which he does some j^lain speaking 
to his people. He reviews his ministrw tells how much work he 
has done, number of sermons preached, funerals attended, and 
othei- details; and in an indirect way he does not fail to tell them 
of their shoi'tcomings in their dealings with him, and the hard 
time he has had. There's no sleeping in church that Sunday. 
What he says stirs u]), and even angers, some of the hearers. 
Others may be moved to tears. A man has to be undoubtetlly 
bad or very incom])etent to be let go with no regrets. He has 
his partisans ; and there are sure to be some, esj^ecially among the 
women, who feel for him and look up to him. 

The minister who dies in the field wliere he has long laboretl 
is bound to get a tribute at his funeral. The affections of the 
people are his, though thev mav never have voiced them. He 
has been a central figure of their life. He may never, even in his 
best days, have been a vital, vigorous power for uplift in the town, 



159 



« « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



but in ;i uon-insistcnt, conservative way his influence has always 
been on the side of kindliness and i;"()od niorals. (lis fellow 
townspeople respect his position, and the\' honor his life. I think 
his end is often enviable, though he may have lived through many 
years of hardshi]). 





XT! 



A chaiti:r of sp:ntiment 



/^XLV a part of the i;"irls of a yoiini; man's acquaintance are 
^-^ a\ailal:)lc ; for man\' of thcni already ha\e beaux when he 
begins to look around, and onlv a |)art of the available ones will 
acce[)t his eomi^anw Hut from amon;^" these he picks out the one 
whose looks, manner, character, and habits he finds most to his 
mind. It is no \"er\' serious mattei", his first fancies; he picks 
out a girl for the i)leasui-e of her i)resent companionshii-), and be- 
cause it is the fashion to ha\'e a giid, antl he feels impelled to do 
as the other fellows do. Chance and small differences often make 
breaks in these companionships; and bo\s change girls, and girls 
change beaux, and the changes seem not to matter much. But 
later, when the \-oung man's thoughts tuin to marriage, he becomes 
more ])ractical. The giii he then courts is considered not only in 
hei' ])eisonal attraction, but her famil}' and fortune are put in the 
balance for weighing also. \'et in the counti"\' it is the girl her- 
self, usually, that attracts the man, independent of otliei- consider- 
ations. A N'oung man wi"\' much prefers a girl whom he thinks 
good-looking and good-tempered ; but, if such will not have him, 

1 60 






A X'alk; with the Hiked (jikl 



ir>3 



• •A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



he consoles himself with some one less fair and less amiable. lie 
likes, too, that his girl should carry herself well, should have some 
style about her. But if he cannot get that kind, he takes up 
some one humbler. 

The average girl is about equally particular as to whom she 
goes with. The going begins when she is in the midst of her 
teens, but it is not till two or three years later that it gets to 
be serious. With many of the girls the fact that they have a 
young man is much moi-e important than the kind of person he is. 




A girl takes the fellow that haj^jpcns to fall to her lot, even if he 
is much her inferior. She will even stick to such a person with a 
good deal of faithfulness. This is partlv because her feelings get 
engaged by the romance of the companionshi]i, or it mav be simply 
because no one more attractive offers himself. Courtship itself 



XII. A CHAPTER j 5 . 

OF SENTIMENT « ^ 

is flattery. That some one picks lier out and desires her company 
is pleasant to tlie girl's self-esteem, and the young man shows a 
willingness to serve her and do her bidding that she gets from no 
one else in the world. A girl is not capturetl }M"imarily by charac- 
ter, or mental attainment, or harmony of tastes, but by the flattery 
of the young man's attentions. It is just as we see it among the 
birds. The young man bird wins his lady by the sHckness and 
gayety of his dress, and by the sweetness of his song, and the 
constancy of his attentions and caresses. 

The church, oddly enough, is one of love's chief highways. 
At a country prayer-meeting the attendants may be nearly all old 
people ; but at most meetings, whether religious or otherwise, in- 
doors or out-doors, the young people are present in goodly num- 
bers, and often make up the major part of the company. The 
simple fact that they are young is one reason for the going, for 
youth has sap and energy that age lacks. Then, they are gregari- 
ous. Boys like the conij^any of other boys, and girls like the 
company of other giils ; but deeper still lies the fact that boys 
and girls like the company of each other. It rarely happens that 
young people go to a meeting from a sense of duty. Habit has 
something to do with it, but the impulse comes largely from the 
social instinct and the mutual attraction felt by the young men 
and the young women for each other's company. If one is to 
judge by their actions, their feeling is that they cannot get 
together too often. 

The evening meetings are more relished by the )-oung peoi)le 
than those of the daytime, for in the evening the young men are 
privileged to accompany the girls home. Sunday morning service, 
for instance, is less attractive, in that the family groups are kept 
intact, and the girls ride away with their own home people. But 
there is some chance for the young people to see each other, and 
glimpses are not impossible even in service time. Occasionally 
you will And a young man so well placed that he can look at the 



165 



««A BOOK OF CULNIRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



girl he most fancies all tlirough meeting, witliout being made 
thereby conspicuous. Yet the hxedness of his gaze may often 
betray him, nevertheless. Other young men, who are less deeply 




The Game of Checkers 

smitten by a particular one, or who are less steadfast, let their 
eyes roam around quite freely ; and by the end of the service they 
are able to discourse with wisdom on the attractions, or lack of 
attractions, of every girl in church. Of course, there are many 
young men who look at the preacher all through service, but that 
is sometimes because the}' sit so near the front that there is not 
much else to look at. I think the girls' eyes and minds do not 
rove as much as the boys' do. Still, they seem to be pretty well 
posted about everything seeable afterwards. 



OF SENTIMENT « " -^ 

There are yt)uni;- men whose inclinations do not run to churcli- 
going. Jiut, if the !j;ii"l such an one fancies goes, lie \-er\- likely 
becomes an attendant of his own accord, or he will go because 
the girl asks him to go. l'erha})s he thus forms a haliit of 
church-going that will stick to him. Hut the laz\' anil unprinci- 
pled, after the wife is caught, seem often to liave no further use 
for the church, and drop once more back into their old sel\-es. 

An occasional use of a team is considered, among all but 
the very poor, both in city and country, an essential part of 
courting. The young man of humble circumstances in the city 
is very much handicapped in this matter. A team for a few 
hours costs as much as several gallons of soda-water would, and 
the expense makes fearful inroads on his surjjlus capital. \\\ 
the countr)' the young farmer has always a team at his com- 
mand free of charge, and, in this respect, has great achantage 
over his city brother. Still, I am not certain that his courtship 
runs moi"e smooth!}' on that account. 

Probably what the young man prizes most in all his keeping 
company with a voung lady are the visits he pavs her at her 
home. The evenings he si)ends with her are very sure to num- 
ber at least two, and there are those wlio are not content with 
less than twice or three times that man\', and e\en then they 
throw in a few extra davtime \-isits. Such assiduity is held by 
manv to be unwise, in that there is danger that the girl will get 
sick of the fellow who hangs ai'ound so nnich. 1 think two e\en- 
ings a week is about the orthodox numlier ; and with these, and 
such exti'a meetings as chance to come between whiles, most of 
the \'oung ]_K'ople worr\' along \'ei'v well. 

The young man, when he makes his ex'cning calls, is alwaws 
very promiU about coming, and he shows an ecpial lack of 
promptness about going. The \'oulh who leaves before ele\en 
is either lukewaian in his affections, or he is remarkabl}' con- 
siderate. On the olhei- hand, it is the general o[)inion ot 



16/ 



« « A BOOK OK COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



every one, except, possibly, of the two most concerned, that 
the young man who stays after midnight is rather overdoing 
the matter. 

In most houses there is a jjarlor that is not needed evenings 
for family use, and the two young i)eople have that rocjm to them- 
selves. When there is a light in the parlor, the neighbors usually 
know what the reason of it is. The neighbors take a good deal 
of interest in the young people's love affairs. They watch their 
goings and comings, and comment very freely. What they don't 




l.\ THE Pasture 



know they guess at. They take not a little pleasure in posting 
each other on new developments and imaginings, and in crack- 
ing jokes on the subject. There are a good many who like to 



XII. A CHAPTER ^n 

OF SENTIMENT* ^ ^" 

quiz the lovers, ami try their wit on them. Most of this talk is 
cheap and shallow. It is not often ill-natured, but it is very apt 
to descend to meddling and unkindly gossip. Terhaps there are 
roses along the lovers' path, but there are thorns on the bushes. 
The usual effect on those talked about is to make them callous, 
and to bring them into the same habits of talk about others. 

Just when two become engaged is usuall)' uncertain, for they 
often are in no haste about advertising the fact. They give the 
public two or three weeks — and perhaps a year or more — to 
guess about the matter. People do a vast amount of wondering 
as to whether there really is an engagement or not — "They've 
been goin' together long enough to be engaged, anyhow." lliere 
is no formal way of announcing an engagement that has the 
sanction of custom or fashion. 71ie thing is simply allowed to 
leak out authoritatively. I'robably it had been leaking out un- 
authoritati\ely for a long time before. There are those who 
never will acknowledge to an engagement. They will even deny 
it clear uj) to their wedding-day. ]^ashfulness may be the reason 
for this ; but usually it is the idea that this reticence is rather 
clever, — it is a game, in which the public is trying to find out, 
and you are trying to keep them from finding out. 

Often the announcement comes when a girl begins to wear 
an engagement ring. Some girls are very proud that they are 
engaged and have a ring, and they take all pains to make the 
new ring conspicuous. They keep the ring hand well in view 
all the time, and you can send in your congratulations as soon as 
you ])lease. Whenever an engagement is announced, all the 
friends are su|3poscd to hasten to congratulate the lovers, whether 
they think they have been wise or otherwise, or wdiether they 
know anvthing about the matter or not. But they mostly like 
to do it. I fancy the congratulations are bubbles, that, if pricked, 
would colki]«e. They are customary, therefore we give them. 
We rather enjoy the society f(M-mality of the thing ; and, it being 



169 



««A i;()()K or COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



a matter of society, we do not feel it necessary to think whether 
we mean exactly what we say or not. A good deal more inter- 
est attaches to seeing how the congratulated ones will take our 
words, and what they will say, than in dcnng the thing itself. As 
for the receivers of these favors, they accept them all seriously, 
and enjoy the stir they are making in the world. 

When the engagement has been annoimced, things have been 
pretty definitely settled, and 
the courtship may be said to 
have ended. The girl is won, 
and the public is witness to 
the fact. The betrothed may 
quarrel and part yet ; but that 
is quite improbable, — at least, 
the parting is. It is not so 
certain that they will not 
quarrel. 

For a long time before 
the wedding, the girl spends 
most of her time dressmak- 
ing, with perhaps more or 

less practice thrown in under her mother's guidance in the art 
of housekeeping. A good supply of wearing apparel, besides 
the wedding-gown, on which the chief effort is expended, is 
considered essential. A good many learn by experience that it 
was more essential than they had any idea of when the pre- 
parations were under way ; for, in the years to come, it is often 
difficult to find either the time or money to provide more. 

The young man, meantime, puts in a new front door at his 
house (which the neighbors take as a sure sign that he is going 
to be married right away), and gives his mind to getting enough 
ready money together to enable him to pay the necessary ex- 
penses of the approaching wedding. If the girl has a little sum 




TaCKINi. a DkUi.iL.'ILT 



\11. A CHAl'IKR ^ 

OK SENTIMENT* ' 

laid aside, it is quite apt to ])c expended on new furniture and 
carpets for tlie liouse. 

The wedding is pretty sure to be in the evening ; and the 
kitchen, sitting-room, and parlor are crowded with friends. The 
whole premises have been furbished up ; and in the parlor there 
are trimmings of green, and a bower has been made in a corner 
for the betrothed couple to stand under during the ceremony. 
The hour arrives, and some one plays a march on the organ, 
which nobody listens to, while the couple come in from where 
thev ha\e been waiting uji-stairs. Then the solemn tones of the 
]:)reacher are heai"d in the ceremony, and j^erhaps some tears are 
shed by the near women relatix'es of the couple, and many others 
of the guests feel as if thev wei'e at a burial ; yet ever\' one is 
eager to see, and all crowd into the room that can, and the un- 
favored ones crane their necks for a sight, and out in the hall- 
way one or two get on chaii's and look o\er the others' heads. 
Now the "Amen" is said; and the compau}' circulate around to 
sliake hands with the "happy couple," and kiss the bride, and 
wish them haj)i)iness, and e\'ervbod\- cracks a joke if he can 
think of one. Prett}' soon \isiting becomes general, though it 
often drags, and the compan)' breaks \\\) into gi-ou])s, and in the 
kitchen some of the men smoke a social cigai\ There is great 
interest in \'isiting another room, wheie are displayed the wed- 
ding-presents, d'hey get a lot of tilings the}' never in the world 
would buy for themselves, and very likely enough parlor lam])S 
to Stock a store. 

Presently jilates are passed, and cake and coffee go aroimd ; 
and a little later it is noticed that the bride and gi"()om have 
disappeaix'd. This is the signal for bringing out bags of rice, and 
setting a watch at the foot of the stairs ; and some of the young 
men go out and find the hack or other team the couple is ex- 
pected to leave in, and decoi'ate it with sti'ips of old sheets torn 
u]) for the ]nn"pose. The \'oung people in-dooi's while awa^' the 



I/I 



««A HOOK. OK COUNTKV 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



time by throwing the rice at each other ; and if a young man can 
sHp a few kernels down a girl's neck, or fill her frizzes with them, 
he thinks himself very funny. Perhaps she thinks he is funny, 
too ; for she only i)lays at anger, and tries to pay him off in coin 




The Village Burying Ground 



of the same sort. When the couple appear at the head of the 
stairs, the rice begins to liy thickly ; and the married pair have to 
run a gantlet that fairly drenches them, and that follows them 
clear out to the team. Not always, for they sometimes manage 
to escape by a back way or by a window, which makes their de- 
monstrative friends feel rather wronged. 

Usually the young couple go on a wedding-trip of a week 
or two, though they keep it a secret where they are going, or 



Xll. A CHAPTER 

OF SENTIMENT. 1/2 

even as to whether they are going at all or not. Many adjf)urn 
at once to the home where they are to begin housekeeping. 
Sometimes they are given a tin-pan antl tin-horn serenade on their 
arri\al at their new home, but this form of rowdyism is less 
common than it has been. 

Probably after marriage a good deal of the romance of the 
courtshij) fades into commonplace. There usually grows with 
years a warm undertone of affection for the home and its various 
mcmber.s, but it is in New England life very undemonstratixe. 
Caress and attentive courtesy and words of love are absent ; nor 
is the man at all j)articular, as he was in the days of courtship, 
to be neat in his dress or habits. If he is slovenly and dirtv, 
and odorous of sweat and stale tobacco, the old-time charm can 
hardly continue. Nor is the woman the same as before. She 
may be of flighty temper, or ailing, or untidy, and a poor house- 
keeper ; and now, in a house of her own, these qualities come out. 

Nevertheless, if the love on both sides has been genuine, 
something of the old feeling is pretty sure to cling, and there 
grows a quiet fondness for each other that only death will break. 
Neither would I mention death, if it were not that widows and 
widowers show such an aptness for finding consolation in new 
partners. They do not care to live on memories. When a man 
loses his wife, he is not expected to waste many months in look- 
ing up some available woman willing to fill the double place of 
second wife and housekeeper. As to the widows, they seem to 
be " willin'." In New luigland, just the same as elsewhere, the 
prose and poetry of life are pretty well mixed ; and you can find 
whatever you look for, — comedy, tragedv, the heroic, the mean, 
and a great deal that is simply aimless and colorless. 




xiir 
DESERTED HOMES 



p MIGRATION among the would-be tillers of the soil began 
— early from the New PZngland coast to the fertile meadows 
along the inland rivers. When the more productive of these low- 
lands had been taken, the settlers began to push back among 
the hills, whose rugged, tumbled masses cover so much of New 
England's little corner of the United States. To those familiar 
with the vast tracts of our country so greatly superior in fertility 
and accessibility, this hill region seems to hold for the farmers 
very little attraction. But at the time it was settled, little was 
known of the West. By contrast with the sandy plains along 
the coast it was very rich, and the crops sent down from the 
hill farms were considered something wonderful. 

The land amongst the hills could be had almost for the ask- 
ing. The emigrants to them were not mere adventurers, seeking 
gold or sudden wealth ; they sought homes, and they did not 
hope to possess these homes except by hard labor and strict 
economy. Such pioneers are men of energy and thrift, and are 
bound to win prosperity, even though circumstances seem adverse. 
Each family was in those times a little world in itself. The 

173 



HOMES « • • « « '^ 

farm furnished not only food and clotliing', l)nt the very house 
for tlie family shelter. Woodland was all about, and there were 
many little sawmills along the streams where the trees could be 
converted into beams and boards. The farmer himself did much 
of the work preparatory to the building, and all the neighbors 
lent ready assistance at the raising. 

livery farm had its field of flax and its flock of sheep. These 
furnished the raw material for clothing, which the women of the 
family spun into thread, wo\'e into cloth, and made into garments. 
1^'arming and household utensils and much of the furniture were 
home-made. A niaj^le orchard furnished most of the sugar used. 
Wants which the family was dependent on the outside world to 
sup])ly were simple and few. Needed supplies from without they 
readily obtained by exchange of products at the village store ; and 
an occasional wagon-load of farm-produce carried to one of the 
large towns, or the surplus of their herds and flocks driven 
thither, brought them wealth. A comfortable home was the 
near, clear object on which the young ]")eo})le set their eyes ; and 
they expected to win it by sturdy work in the manner to which 
they were used. 

The family and home town bounded the world then. What 
lay beyond was but vaguely known. Now wider and fuller knowl- 
edge makes self and a quiet village life seem contracted. The 
newspaper and literature give wide outk)oks to the humblest 
home, from one end of the globe to the other. In the reader's 
ears, however remote his habitation, is a continual hum of strange 
sounds, — the waves of the sea, the din of crowded city streets, 
the thud of the \)\Qk as the miner searches for treasure in the 
far West, the clicking of the reapers in the wide grain-fields of 
the prairies, and the ring of gold and silver money as it changes 
hands in the world's trade and commerce. The dweller in the 
weatherworn little house among the secluded New luigland hills 
hears all this ; and as he follows the slow jjlough across the rocky 



177 



« « A IIOOK OK COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



fields, or swings the scythe hencath the hot skies of summer, is 
it any wonder he sees visions of fortune or fame beckoning him ? 
At the very best there will be whispers in the breezes of quicker 
gains for lighter labor, and of enlivening sights and sounds to 
be gained by a change of abode. All this makes the bond of 
seclusion chafe, and many go and few return. 

Had the Puritans gone up the Mississippi, and settled on the 
rich lowlands of the Middle States, New luigland would still be 
largely given up to forests. The land West gives so much larger 
returns for the same expenditure of time and labor in the case 
of most crops, that our rocky uplands would naturally have been 




A Picnic 



the last to be utilized. Still, the advantage of the West over the 
East was not marked till the railroads made transportation easy, 
and farm machinery was invented to do the work which had 



XIII. DESERTED 
HOMES « « « « « 



been done by hand and required many laborers. These machines 
could be used to advantage only in large and level fields. Such 
fields the West had, and our hills had not. New England could 
no longer compete with tlic West, which now had fertile soil, 
clear, broad fields, railroads, and labor-saving machinery all in her 
favor. The sc^■the was antiquated, yet much of the hill grass- 
land could only be mown by hand. Planting, cultivating, reap- 
ing, and threshing were in the West all reduced to a science. 
In the East nature compelled the slow old methods. Besides, in 
all old communities there is the tendency to follow very closely 
the ways which have become habitual. As their fathers worked, 
so the new generation works ; but a living no longer can be 
made in the old ways. Success is only with the few who can 
adapt themselves to the changing times and their needs. 

As a rule, it was the most energetic who emigrated to the 
more promising fields of the West. This left behind those who 
were least fitted to cope with altered conditions and increased 
comi)etition. Life and living have become more complicated. 
The farm no longer furnishes all the necessaries of life as it 
did formerly. Food, clothing, house furnishing.s, and farm tools 
have to be bought to a much larger extent than before. Car]iets 
and wall-paper call for a periodical outlay. A set of upholstered 
furniture for the parlor is as[)ired to, and the girls of the family 
feel that their happiness depends on their haxing a melodeon. 

Travelling has grown more general with the increase of rail- 
roads ; and journeying, which in stage-coach days held small at- 
traction, is now considered a necessitv. It has become a great 
trial to live far removed from a railroad station. " Every one 
n(nvadays wants to go somewhere once in a while." The pos- 
session of railroads, and hence facilities for travel, gives to all the 
large places a magnetic ])ower over the dwellers in the outlying 
towns. More important still as an element of cit}' attraction is 
the thought among the young i)eople that their home village is 



179 



• «A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



chill aiitl slow. They lonjj^ to get where there is more lite and 
movement. It has become the rule for boys to leave for the 
cities somewhere between the ages of fifteen and twenty ; and 




UllKlM. A 1 His t. 



each lad, as he grows up, naturally follows the example of his older 
brothers and the other village boys. " The young people don't 
like the country," you are told. " If you don't let 'em go of their 
own accord they'll run away before they'll stay." It may be 
in time that the parents, too, leave the old homestead, and go to 
live with one of their children, or they wait until death calls them, 
and another is added to the lonely, deserted houses amongst the 
hills. The children have no use for the old ]3lace, and it is sold 
for whatever it will luring at auction. Probably it is not at once 
given over to decay. There are in all communities certain peo- 
ple of a roving disposition who own no homes, but rent a house 



XIII. DESERTED , Oq 

HOMES • « • « « * 

as convenience dictates. They take some place where rents are 
low, and there abide until the lexer of unrest calls them to move 
on again. The homes which the old families have left are usu- 
ally occupied for a number of years by a succession of these 
rovers. Such tenants are apt to be shiftless in their tendencies ; 
and the place gets out of repair, and the out-buildings sag and 
lean, and fall to pieces. When the house has seen its last occu- 
pant, it is usually convenient to make it a storage-place for apples, 
farm-tools, and odds and ends ; but it receives slight care, and 
decay makes swift havoc. Kvcn the little mendings which the 
most shiftless would make for their own comfort if the house 
was their home are neglected. The roof gets leaky, the window- 
panes fall in or get broken, a door loses its hinges, a stone in 
the underpinning is displaced ; and these little beginnings are not 
long in making the dwelling a broken mass of fallen bricks and 
timbers, l^^ach year the scanty grass of the farm fields is har- 
vested, and the apples picked ; but the land is not helped by 
fertilizing, and bushes start up all along the walls, and encroach 
on the open fields, and Nature seems in a fair way to take the 
whole place back to herself once more. 

P'or the last forty years or over this process has been going 
on, and the farm population of New lingland has been decreas- 
ing. I']ven the \'alley towns in close proxiiuity to railroads and 
city niarkets show a depletion, and unoccupied houses can be 
found along the finest of oiu' old village streets, l^ut their num- 
bers increase with the distance from railroads and markets, and 
many of the remote towns have lost nearly half their inhal)itants. 
Usually the vacant houses are scattered about singh', Init there 
are places in the outlying districts where you may come on whole 
groups of them. 

Most of these deserted houses that one sees along our coun- 
try ways are low, brown little buildings which have never been 
painted, or which have been so long strangers to a paint-brush 



i83 



• •A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



that the old tints have ahnost disappeared. A redcHsh tone lin- 
gers on the loosening clapboards of some, showing them to date 
back to the early years of the century, when red was considered 
the most pleasing color for a dwelling. Yet once in a while 
you will find houses of more recent date, roomy and substantial 
and comfortable. The majority of these, however, need consid- 
erable repairing inside and out to make them pleasantly habitable ; 
and many are partly fallen in, or so decayed that repairs are out 
of the question. 

The reasons for desertion do not vary much, and if you look 




Cows IN THE Barnyard 



for a romance or a tragedy connected with these forsaken homes 
you in most cases look in vain. It is but a prosy story the 
neighbors tell. " Two old ]:)eople lived there all alone," they say 
of the house you inquire about. " A year ago the woman died, 



XIII. DESERTED 
HOMES « • « « « 



184 



and now two nK)nths ago the man died. No one wants to move 
into our town nowadays ; so the farm's sold to one of the neigh- 
bors for httle or nothing, and there the house is all shut up." 

"The family that lived over in the house you're talkin' about 
never amounted to much here ; and they've gone down to Fac- 
tory Village, and the whole family of 'em's workin' in the mills 
there." 

"How tlo they get along there?" 

"Well, I don't know. They was always kind o' shiftless. 
They take in considerable money, but they don't save nothin'." 

The story of another runs in this wise. 

" The last time that little house above here was occupied 
there was just one old woman lived there all alone. All her 
relations was dead, or had forgotten her, or didn't care noth- 
ing about her ; and the town had to support her mostly. She 
had a little garden, and the neighbors helped her some ; but 
two years ago one of the women here called, and found her 
dead. It ain't much of a ]:)lace, anyway. ' Tain't likely any- 
body'll want to live there again." 

One grief of the young people on the farm is the lack of 
ready money. To have spending-money and smart ck)thes is to 
a boy apt to be one of the heights of his ambition. In the 
countr)' the attainment of these things is wofuUy hard. If you 
work for your father on the home farm, he does not pay wages; 
and there is difficult)' in making him see )()ur need of jiocket- 
money as you see it yourself. In the majority of cases, even if 
the father were willing to sup])ly the boy's calls, he can spare 
little money for anything beyond absolute necessities. In earlier 
times there was no alternative but to work on where one was, 
and there were few things one needed to buy. Hut when the 
factories began to spring up, there was call for laborers, and the 
way at once ojiened to earning ready money. This first set 
the current of life in the ccnintry flowing into the cities. The 



I«i 



««A BOOK. OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



reason for the current continues to exist, and so does the direc- 
tion of the tiow. 

It is the attraction of the city which is at present the chief 
cause of the depopulation of the New England country. The 




A Feed for the Sheep 



new lands of the West have laro;ely been taken up, and emigra- 
tion has ceased in that direction. The West has the advantage 
in raising wheat, corn, and other great crops ; but many localities 
in the East are especially favored for dairy-farming and market- 
gardening. 71ie people do not leave the farms because a living 
cannot be made. This is the case at times, but is not the rule. 
The impossibility of making a living is often asserted, and has 
wide acceptance; but it would be hard to find an in.stance where 
the same thought, energy, and hard work have been used which 



XIII. DKSKRTKD jg^ 

HOMES « « « « « 

wins success in tlic otlier callings which does not win success as 
well in farming. Instance after instance can be found where 
young men have taken farms, and, by studying the needs of the 
markets, and keejMng their land under high cultivation, have had 
handsome returns. It requires hard work, and it requires system. 
They get their crops started early, and they try to be first with 
them in the markets. They pride themselves in making a repu- 
tation for always having the best of everything. Such farmers 
find a steady market. They win the confidence of the wealthy 
city residents, and get the highest jM'ices. At the farm, the 
buildings are kept painted and in good repair, the stock is well 
housed, the fields are fertilized and made to give rich returns, 
and an air of busy thrift is everywhere apparent. The grounds 
around the house are neatly kept, and a lawn-mower is brought 
into frequent use to keep the grass down. In-doors is attractive- 
ness too. The ideal farmer is not simply the man who grubs in 
the dirt, antl his thought is not bounded by the acres he tills. 
He has his librar\' ; jmpers and magazines are frequent visitors, 
and there is a piano in the sitting-room. In his thrift and suc- 
cess he finds satisfaction. There is a systematic strife after at- 
tainment which gives a healthful interest to his work ; and for 
such as he the city has slight attraction. 

Of the unsuccessful class, there are always some who are 
burdened b)' circumstances beyond their control. There is a 
large number, however, who are buixlenetl by their own habits 
and lack of thought. The man whose ci'ops are a little late, and 
ajjt to fall short of the best c[uality, does not get high prices, 
lie has a seedy, slouchy look when he comes into town with his 
produce. Idie butter, eggs, and other things he carries are put 
up in all sorts of old boxes, baskets, and bags ; and they lack 
attractiveness. Such management is not good business, and the 
man cannot make farming a success. He says farming does not 
pay. He thinks the city a sphere more suited to his talents. In 



18/ **^ HOOK OK COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

time he deserts the farm, and perhaps in some factory or city 
shop makes very good pay. He did not put brains into his farm- 
ing. Now an overseer furnishes brains, and his chief contribu- 
tion is hil)or. In that he makes a better living than formerly, he 
thinks that he has demonstrated that farming ditl not pay ; but 
often he has only proved that he accomijlishes more under an- 
other's overseeing than under his own. 

Interest in the deserted homes and in the reasons for them, 
and the remedy, has been widespread. Within the last few 




A Deserted Home 



years the States in which they are most numerous have under- 
taken to find tenants. The methods have been nuich the same, 
and an explanation of the plan adopted in Massachusetts will 
serve for all. 



Xlll. DESEKTKI) jQg 

IIOMKS « « « e « 

The l^oard of Agriculture has charge of the work. The first 
m()\c was to send circulars to the assessors of each town in the 
State, asking them to give lists and descrii^tions of " abandoned 
or partial!}' abandoned farms" in their vicinity. An "abandoned 
or partially abandoned farm "' was defined to be one which was 
not occu{Med for {)urposes of cultivation or a summer home, and 
which was for sale at a low j^-ice. 

h'arms that had been so long abandoned that the buildings 
had disappeared and the land mostly grown up to brush and 
wood were not to be considered. Tracts of land suitable for 
purposes of cultivation or for grazing, even without buildings, 
were, however, listed. It was also noted that it would be use- 
less to call attention to an)' farius but those offered for a low 
price in proportion to their j)roductive capacity. 

One hundred and thirty-five towns responded with reports of 
deserted homes. A circular was then despatched to the owner 
of each farm, asking for a detailed descrij)tion of the farm, its 
buildings, its distance from post-office and railroad station, and 
its price. On receipt of these answers a pamphlet was prepared 
containing the full description of each farm, with a map and 
prefatory matter of general exi_ilanation. Copies were distributed 
free on application to the l-Joard of Agiiculture. 

Most of the farius thus advertised were in hilly and broken 
central sections of the State, or in the western part, among the 
rugged regions of the Green Mountain ranges. Special stress 
was laid on the fact that the scenery in many of these deserted 
localities was of unsurjiassed beauty, and that the location and 
siu'roiindings of many of the farms catalogued luade them ideal 
places for siuumer residences. h'igures were gi\en in the pam- 
I)hlet to show that the staples of old-fashioned fariuing are being- 
replaced by a different class of crops. The time when great 
muubers of cattle were fattened in the Connecticut valle\' and 
on the Keikshire hills, and then dri\en to l-Joston market, is ])ast. 



j3q ••a book OF' COUNTRV 

^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

The wheat crop has been steadily falling off for the past fifty 
years. But a vast increase in the production of butter and milk 
shows dairy-farming to be prosperous and profitable ; and figures 
of the same sort prove that there is gain in the raising of vege- 
tables, poultry, small fruits, and other things. It is noted, too, 
that the Massachusetts farmers have one marked advantage over 
those in most other States. This lies in the numerous big towns 
and cities, which afford a good home market for what the farms 
produce. The business of supplying these centres of population 
with milk, butter, eggs, fresh fruit, and fine vegetables belongs 
to the farmers of the home State. 

The average size of abandoned farms was found to be eighty- 
si.\ acres. Their value with buildings averaged $894. Those 
without buildings averaged $561. The average cost of the land 
itself, per acre, was thus less than six dollars. 

The quotation of one or two descriptions from the catalogue 
of farms for sale will give an idea of them all, and of the places 
they advertise. The following is one from among the low-priced 
places : — 

Shutesbury. — Farm of si.xty acres ; mowing, eight ; i)asture, 
eighteen ; woodland, thirty-four ; suitable for cultivation, twelve. 
Almost all the grass can be cut with a machine. One-story 
house, five rooms, in need of some rei)air. Good well at house, 
and running water back of barn. Twenty apple and twelve 
other fruit trees. Railroad station, I.everett, six miles ; post-office, 
Shutesbury, one mile. Price, $400; cash at sale, Sioo; interest 
■on balance, four pei' cent. 

For an example of the more expensive farms we note this 
one in Windsor : Farm of one hundred and sixty four acres ; mow- 
ing, sixty ; pasture, forty ; woodland, forty-six ; suitable for cultiva- 
tion, twenty. Grass can be cut with a machine. Sugar-bush, 
■one hundred and fiftv trees. House seven rooms ; fair repair. 
Brook in pasture ; two wells, one in cellar, one in barn. Seventy- 



Xlll. DKSKKTED . _ _ 

HOMES « e « « « y^ 



fi\e apiilc-trecs. Railroad station, Dalton, four miles ; post-office, 
Windsor, two miles. I'rice, Js 1,200; cash at sale, $600; interest 
on balance, six per cent. School, half a mile ; church and cheese- 
factory, two miles. 

This effort of the State led to a great deal of discussion in the 
new'spapers, and there were numerous applications for the cata- 
logues. Most interest was awakened in the well-to-do residents 
of the large towns. Iheir object was to procure for themselves, 
at a moderate price, a country home for the summer. Vov all-the- 
year-round homes, as farms pure and simple, these outlying dis- 
tricts secmetl to lack attraction. 

Some responses came from dwellers in the city who had 
lost their health, and hoped b}" an out-door life to win back 
their strength and vigor. Some wrote who in their factor)' work 
had had the half-spoken wish for \'ears to leave the din and 
dust, and Ii\-e in countr)' (piiet. J^ut there is among such as 
these great hesitancy about making the change. To leave good 
wages and a safe situation for uncertainty is not easw To many 
countrv life is dreamed of as one of the hopes of the future 
half their li\'es ; but the\' never catch more than vacation glimpses 
of it, and the hope is never realized. I'^i-om the West came 
other inc[uiring letters. l'eo})le who had moved from the lilast 
had not forgotten their old homes, and were homesick. 

I^ut that the hilltowns should regain all their former pros- 
perity does not, at present, seem i^robable. The winters in 
particular are a great trial. With their cold and the blocked 
roads they make the women of the family pi'isoners for months. 
It rec|uires not a little hardihootl to get about in snow-tin;e. 
An old gentleman who had li\-ed all his life among the hills, re- 
marking on this, said. " I1ie suimner visitor comes up here, and 
says, 'This is a glorious region,' and talks as if- there was no 
finer place on eaith to live in. Hut he has just run away from 
the heat and noise of the citv. He'd simr a different tune if 



191 



• •A BOOK. OK COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



he came up here in winter. He'd be as rabid to ^et away as 
he was to come."" 

In the villages there is always some little stir and society ; 
but on the scattered, outlying farms time is apt to drag heavily. 
The almost inexitable result of this six months of winter lone- 




PiCKiNG Apples 



liness is that the people's lives get a touch of hopelessness. 
This melancholy can often be detected in the settled tone of 
the voice, which has become sad and complaining, even when 
speaking of the most ordinary and even cheerful facts. 

Another burden of the hill-town farmers is the taxes. In 
many places they run up to twenty dollars on the thousand, and 
have been known to go as high as twenty-eight. It is no small 



XIII. DESERTED 

HOMES « « « « « ^92 

task, in the majority of families, to raise the money to pay such 
rates. They are driven to seek a home elsewhere, in regions 
where the burdens are less heavy. As for would-be purchasers 
from the outside, whether they be poor or wealthy, they will 
hesitate long before bining where the yearly cost of owning 
property is so high. 

To a man with a family who settles in a new place, the char- 
acter of the schools and their accessibility become important. 
The hilltowns, as compared with others, are in most cases at 
a disadvantage. A district school education is all they usually 
have to offer. The school year is short ; and the teachers poorly 
paid, and themselves are usually graduates of no other than this 
same district school. They, very likely, have no further inter- 
est in the teaching than to gain a little money to help pay the 
home taxes, or the interest on the home debt, or more prob- 
ably for their own })crsonal expenditure. The schoolhouses are 
few and far between. They are lonesome little buildings, placed 
in some spot convenientl}' central for the district, many times 
entirely out of sight of any houses, and again in some little 
clearing all closed in b\- the sombre woods. The furnishing is 
very rude, and modern hel})s for study are noticeable by their 
absence. Some of the scholars have to tra\el a distance of two 
or three miles along the lonelv, half-woodetl loads to get to 
school, and the scholar who is not obliged to bring his dinner 
is an exception. The coming of settlers from the outside is 
not encouraged by these facts ; for no man with a family in 
these days of education will voluntarily ]:>lace his children be- 
yond its reach. The value of schooling is far too well under- 
stood, and its necessitv for a successful battle with life is keenly 
felt. The prospect of good schools is now one of the potent at- 
tractions to the emigrant, and where these are lacking he will 
not go. 

The future rural life in New Emrland will be somewhat differ- 



jQC «« A BOOK OF COUNTRY 

^^ CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

ent from that of the past or that of the present. Along the 
streams is a chance for a limited number of mills to do profitable 
work, and there are many favorable opportunities for gain in 
dairy-farming which need not entail seclusion or great drudgery. 
The old-fashioned churning and home butter-making are things 
of the past on the large farms and among the more enterprising 
farmers. Instead, the cream is collected each day at the farm- 
houses by a man who makes that his Inisiness, and is carried to 
some central point where there is a creamery. Here is a special 
building where all the cream of the district is made into butter 
by men who spend their whole time at it. This makes science of 
the work, and some of the dairy-farms carried on in this way arc 
very remunerative. Inarming in New England never returns a 
large fortune ; but it may give a comfortable home, and a snug 
sum laid av.-ay in the savings-bank. 

In summer the hills have their fairest aspect, and many pil- 
grims from the cities resort thither to spend their vacations. 
Here quiet broods, and the air is sparkling and pure. Narrow 
roadways crisscross the country invitingly everywhere. They 
pass through shadowy woods, across farmland clearings, along 
the narrow valleys where the little streams pursue a fretting 
course among the bowlders, and again high up among the sunlit, 
stone-fenced pastures. Some towns, especially favored by fashion, 
chance, or nature, are being quite rejuvenated b\' the summer 
people. These outsiders often take an interest in the homes, 
schools, churches, and library of the place, which results in a 
substantial gain for the town in appearance, education, and re- 
finement. By this annual inflow from the cities, the country dis- 
tricts are in some measure getting back what they yield to the 
cities ; and in this lies suggestion of a more hopeful time coming. 
But if the future leaves the lonely little farms, far from neigh- 
bors, on the by-roads and some of the more barren and weather- 
beaten hilltops, entirely deserted, it will be no wonder. Nor is 



Xin. DKSERTKD , ^ 

T90 



HOMES 



such a \ic\v wholl)- cheerless. As \o\\'^ as land is ])lenty in more 
favored districts, where the soil is richei", ami society and modern 
facilities of travel more within reach, it will not make life less 
full if these lonely hills are again jjossessed hy the old-time 
forests. 




XIV 



THE FARM DAY BY DAY 



|\/[OST city men of culture and refinement at times feel a 
' ^ strong longing for the country. The New Yorker looks 
out from his office window on the hurly-burly of the street with 
the desire to escape its unending rattle and movement. " A 
little hillside farm and quiet " seem to him Arcadia. Yet those 
who dream of farm life in their city offices seem always to have 
lurking doubts as to the possibility of realizing their ideal. They 
never become farmers. The^■ have the fear, I suppose, it would 
not be all poetry when they got down to details ; and there is an 
unpleasant vision in the mind of " getting up at four o'clock in 
the morning to milk eleven cows before breakfast." 

The truth is, he is a lucky man among New England farmers 
who has cows to the number of eleven. The majority are obliged 
to content themselves with from one to four or five. The large 
farms may keep a dozen, and an occasional milk-farm may number 
its herd by the scores, but the average farmer keejis well within 
the units. 

As to the four-o'clock-in-the-morning bugbear ; such unearthly 
hours may have been kept by the forefathers, but civilization has 

197 



XIV. THE FARM , o 

DAY BY DAY « « " 

advanced a stage in the last generation, and few farmers can be 
found who are in the habit of poking about among the gray 
morning glooms as earh' as four o'clock. In summer New Eng- 
land i)eople rise between five and six ; in winter they rise between 
six and seven. 

ICxceptions to this rule are to be found in the milkmen and 
market-gardeners who supply the cities and large towns. The 
former are up in the neighborhood of three o'clock every morn- 
ing in the year from Januar}' to December. The milk must be 
delivered early ; and the milkman has not only to feed and milk 
his cows before he starts, but often has to drive many miles to 
reach his market. The purveyors of vegetables and small fruits 
are some of them e\en earlier than the milkmen ; and in the 
season, if you lixe on the line of their route to the city, you may 
hear the slow ]-umble of their heax'ily laden wagons very soon 
after midnight. 

Then, too, most farmers make up occasional loatls of ])r<)duce 
for the market ; and many ha\'e a set day each week on which 
they go to the nearest large town to sujiply regular customers 
with butter, eggs, and other farm wares. Some laggards mav 
not get started on their trips till the middle of the forenoon, but 
the thrifty fai'mer is up getting his work done and loading his 
wagon long before daylight. Sunrise sees him jogging along 
citvward. If the distance to market is not over seven or eight 
miles, he will get back early in the afternoon, and ha\'e time to 
do considerable work before supper-time. 

There is always a flutter of excitement about the house when, 
on his return, the team turns in at the home gate. The family 
is always glad to see him safe back again ; and then there is the 
interesting problem of whether he has done the various errands 
the different ones intrusted to him, and whether he has done 
them right. 

" Here comes pa," says Mis. h'armer, as she looks out of the 



20I * * -^ HOOK OF COUNTRY 

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 

window. "I do hope he thought to get the yeastcakc I forgot 
to tell him we wanted." 

She goes to the door, and all the rest of the family that 
happen to be in the house at the time go with her. Mr. h'armer 
calls out " Hullo ! " as he alights, and begins to unhitch. 

" Did you get my bunnit at the milliner's ? " asks the eldest 
girl. 

"Yes," is the reply; "but it's under the seat, and you can't 
get it till I heave off some of them things on behintl there. I'll 
get it when I get the horse unhitched." 

The girl, to expedite matters, helps undo the harnes.s, and 
get the h(n-se out of the shafts. Questions fiy thickly ; and inter- 
est is rife down to the smallest member of the household, who 
hopes he, too, has been remembered with a toy perhaps, or, at the 
very least, with a stick of striped candy. 

Occasionally Mrs. Farmer accompanies her husband to market, 
or one of the children goes with him. The younger ones have 
usuall}' pleasure for their object ; the older ones, when they go, 
have serious interests in the shopping-line, which they are afraid 
to trust to the head of the household. 

Bedtime comes early. The milkman begins to nod directly 
after supper, and very probably falls asleep over the paper he is 
reading. In fact, he and the market-gardener can hardly sit in 
quiet ten minutes at any hour of the day without droj^ping off 
into a nap. There is enough of muscular labor in the life of 
most farm families to make them, when evening arrives, not 
much inclined to mental activity. Unless visitors come in, even- 
ing is not a time of much conversation, and reading for any 
length of time is pretty sure to end in dozing. 

When sleepiness begins to be overpowering, that is felt to be 
a sign it is time to retire, whatever the hour ; and the milkman, 
and the farmer who has to make an early start, disappear between 
seven and eie:ht o'clock. The others follow as the inclination 



XIV. THE FARM ^ 

DAY BY DAY « « 

takes them. About nine o'clock, in most farmhouses, the kist 
hght has disappeared, and darkness has full sway. 

New England life has several distinct environments, each in 
itself a study. P'irst, there is the village life of one of the valley 
•towns ; second, there is the life of such a town's outlying ham- 
lets, each of which has for its public centre a little wooden 
schoolhouse at the meeting of the roads ; third, there is the life 
in the hill-town villages. Hill towns are those in the more tum- 
bled antl rugged regions of New hjigland. At times the chief 
village of such a town is in the valley of some little ri\er, but 
oftenest it is on the rolling sweep of a great hill. These villages, 
too, have their tributary hamlets, and their townships are dotted 
with numerous isolated farms ; and each of these environments 
has its distinctive effect on character, and on the attractiveness 
or lack of attractix'eness of the homes. 

The \alley towns have the most thrifty look, and they have 
a mellow aspect that can only be given by age and a rich soil. 
They are characterized by beautiful lines of elms, which arch the 
streets, and embower the fine old mansions i)uilt seventy-five or 
one hundred years ago. It has become the common habit of the 
people to look after the neatness of their own premises, and to 
take an interest and pride in the general neatness of the whole 
village. The buildings, as a rule, are kept in good repair, and 
wiien a house approaches the borders of rustiness it receives a 
coat of fresh paint. 

Churches and j^tublic buildings are well cared for. Indeed, 
the appearance of a subscription-paper which circulates with the 
object of raising money to modernize or beautify the sanctuary 
is perennial. The horsesheds in the rear of the church do not, 
however, receive a due share of public attention. They exist in 
a state of perpetual grayness and decrepitude. Yet they are not 
altogether neglected ; for they do receive an occasional decoration 
of circus ]:)Osters and ]:)atent-medicine handbills, which, if it does 



20 



««A BOOK OF COUNTkY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



not add to their aesthetic beauty, makes them more interesting 
and attractive to the children of the neighboring schoolhouse. 
I suppose I ought to mention in this connection that some of 
the big " bad boys " of that school yonder have used these same 
sheds on their noonings to i)lay cards in — yes, and to learn to 
smoke in. 

On the whole, these villages, with their two churches, their town 
hall and high-school building, and the two or three little stores, 
and numerous well-kept farmhouses, impress one very pleasantly. 
Farmers rarely attain to affluence ; yet there is a goodly proportion 




One of the Old Valley Towns 



of them who attain to comfort, and are exemplars of a well-to-do 
thrift. On the other hand, many are burdened with mortgages 
that make life an unending struggle to win money enough to pay 



XIV. THE FARM ^ 

DAY BY DAY « « "4 

interest and taxes aftei" proxiding for other expenses. There are 
many families who, in a humble \va\', li\e tragedies without them- 
selves realizing it. Those who do realize it, and chafe under it, 
make the tragedy more distressing still. In reality, whether in 
debt or not, a chronic lack of ready money is a characteristic of 
a large part of the country dwellers. I fancy the selectmen of a 
rural town would expect to see most of the community go into 
bankruptcy if they insisted on having the taxes paid as soon as 
the bills were presented. If they can get them on the instal- 
ment plan, within six or eight months of that time, the}' are 
thankful. Yet if a family is not altogether shiftless, its troubles 
stop short of real suffering ami total wreck. One does not need 
in the country more than a roof over one's head, and a garden- 
patch, and a flock of hens, to be sure of the bare necessaries of 
life. A lingering sickness, which causes continued expense, or 
that disables one of the workers of the family, is of all things 
the one to be most dreaded. The family which all along has 
been living on the outer edge of comfort sees hard times then. 
Such a casualty makes " scrimping " necessary, even amc^ng the 
well-circumstanced ; and, with the poor, the added care, and the 
weary, lengthened hours of work needed to make ends meet, is 
a heavy load. 

The centres of the social life of a town are the church, the 
post-of^ce and stores, and the hotel. There is much visiting be- 
tween neighbors ; and if the question is asked what they talk 
about on these visits, I am afraid the answer would be, "about 
the rest of the neighbors." In itself the subject is not a bad 
one ; but the treatment is npt to be one of gossipy curiosity, 
and of opinion-giving that lacks largely the saving virtue of 
charity. Like the child who pulls the clock to pieces and then 
cannot put it together again, they tear down and do not build 
up. In good-sized villages there is a division of families into 
a number of sets or cliques, each with a i)articular buzz of 







w 



.^T 
''>. 



it'V 



%♦'•-* Vi 




20/ 



• « A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



opinioii antl criticism of other people's doings. One of the best 
places to go to hear the news is church. If a girl, for instance, 
chooses to stand around afterwards, and chatter with the others, 
she will get filled up with all the petty news of the neighbor- 




The Geese 



hood. Then when she comes home she has all this gossip to 
retail out, — what those who live around have said ; all about 
this fellow and that girl, this beau and that, what he ought to 
'a' done, and what she ought to 'a' done. Often the girl and 
some of her listeners will spend a good part of an hour dis- 
puting over something that doesn't matter either way. A fu- 
neral is always the occasion, too, of a good deal of talk. There s 
hardlv a detail overlooked, and even in the carriage on the way 



XIV. THK FARM ^ 

DAY BY DAY • • ^^° 

to tlie i;Ta\-c comments arc free!}' made on the appearance of 
the fenow-mourners. "There's liill Watson, he thinks he's made 
now!" Hiat is the style of remark. If st)me minister shonld 
preach a sermon on j^-ossip, — and it seems to me that is a sub- 
ject they incline to treat tenderly or avoid altogether, — the folks 
would i;-o home and sa_\-, " Well, such and such a one g-ot a g-ood 
dose that time; hope they'll think of it next time they go to 
say anything- against us." In many villages the worst centre of 
gossip is the church sewing-society. The gossip there is at times 
not only decidedly unchristian, but borders close on scandal. 

In towns where there is more than one church, — and, while 
most farming towns need but one, they usually have at least 
two, — there is pretty sui-e to be a feud of more or less intensity 
between the different societies. But the gossip and the feuds, 
though they sometimes burst into fierce flaming and stir the whole 
community, only smoulder ordinarily. Nor are the townspeople 
at bottom other than amiable and well-meaning, but there is 
great need that they should make kindliness more characteristic 
of their social relations with their fellow-mortals. 

Magazine and literar\- clul)s have won a place in many neigh- 
borhoods. .Some of the literary meetings are bright and fresh- 
ening, others drag, and hardly rise above the level of stujMdity ; 
but the}- all hel]) to raise the })lane of thought. I^'ind a xillage 
where the\' ha\-e had foi- a series of )'ears a successful literary 
club, and you will fintl the people tlecidedlv supeiior in culture 
and refinement to those of communities which have had no 
club. 

The church is a subject of solicitous care for quite a group 
ot its more actively dis})osed members ; for it is no easy matter 
to keep the minister in breatl antl butter, and attend to the a]v 
jK'als of all the missions that look t(^ them foi- help. Then, there 
are the young who must be amused bv special sup]')ers and so- 
ciables ; and every few years there comes the grand occasion of 



209 



a c A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



a revival in the cliiircli, wlieii attendance is imperative every 
evening; or there is an installation ; or there is a combined gath- 
ering of all the missionary societies of a particular kind in the 
county in that church. 7\11 this means a good deal of work and 
activity ; and a large share of it means only that, to tell the 
truth. 

As to the store, post-of^ce, and hotel, the habit of loafing in 
them is easily formed. It begins with loitering there when on 
errands. Evenings and stormy days a good many country dwell- 
ers find time hanging 
heavy on their hands. 
On such days a group 
is found in each of 
the public resorts of 
the place ; and, as the 
fashion is, they smoke 
and chew and spit, and 
keep up an intermit- 
tent conversation of 
combined news, opin- 
ion, and chaff, with a 
minglin.g of profanity, 
and of stories of a sort 
much better untold. It 
seems astonishing that 
such a reeking, filthy 
crowd should be toler- 
ated in respectable 
towns, and at the post- 
office, too, where the 
children and women have to go as well as the men. 

The hotel, of all these resorts, has the most dubious reputa- 
tion as a lounging-place ; for it is there that lic|Uors are sold. 




Tkaining the Dog 



XIV. THE FARM ^ .^ 

DAY IJY DAY * * 

if the town lias voted license, and a _c;ood many times when it 
has not voted license. The traveller throui^'h New ]{ngland, who 
stoi)s at its taverns need not be sur[)rised if, after breakfast, the 
landlord inquires in a confidential tone if he wouldn't " like to 
take a little something;." ( )r let him take a seat by the stove in 
the l)arroom through a rainy day, and note the mysterious visits to 
a back room of the landlord and this one or that one who has 
tlropped in. There is an odor cjf whiskey on the air when they 
return, and yet this is a no-license town! As a rule, whatever 
the town votes, a hotel keeps liquors on hand for the accommo- 
dation of travellers ; and most landlords will sell on the sly to any 
one they know, and can trust to keep c[uiet about it. 

The outlying hamlets of a \'alley town participate in part in 
the life of the central village, but they have their own summer 
picnics and Christmas-tree in the schoolhouse and their own lit- 
erary circle, (3ften they have their own particular loafing-place 
for those whose taste runs in that direction. This may be a little 
store, or a grist-mill, or a ferryhouse on the riverd^ank. These 
hamlets and the scattered farms miss something of the activity 
of the larger villages ; but thev miss a good deal of pettiness as 
well, and the boys and girls are comparatively free from the idle 
rowdyism of a certain class of young fellows which is an element 
of the life of most towns. Those children who grow up in the 
comparative isolation of the smaller villages and more lonely, 
separate farmhouses often make the most effective men and 
women. If they are naturally endowed with a fair share of 
vitality and mental vigor, the fact that they are thrown on their 
own resources brings out and develops capability which the more 
favored situations would ha\-e failed to do. 

The New luigland country is being invaded to a considerable 
extent, in some ]daces, by late emigrants from across the water. 
They are viewed with more or less feeling of antipathy, tlue to 
differences in habits and religion, and to the newcomer's superior 



211 



• «A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



thrift. The foreigner has no pride of family or of jjosition to 
uphold. He adapts himself to conditions, and gets right down 
to hard work. Many of the Yankee families are shiftless and 
wasteful, and are too aristocratic on .slender means to get on in 
the world. Besides, it is often the case that the foreigner has 
more physical vital- 
ity than the older 
settlers. With the 
acquisition of jDrop- 
erty and his thrifty 
use of it, and the 
education of his chil- 
dren at the schools, 
this foreign element 
becomes an addition 
of real value to the 
country town. At 
any rate, the exam- 
ple the newcomer 
sets of industrious 
economy is one of 
which there is need. 

The foreigners settle almost wholly in the valley towns. Few 
are to be found among the hills. These continue to be the sole 
homes of the " double d}'ed and twisted Yankees." For many 
years the hill towns have been dwindling in size, and their life 
has lost much of its old-time vitality. Among the hills, the 
farther from the centre of trade you get, the more marked is the 
rugged rusticity of the inhabitants. You find some very queer 
ones ; but the people are by no means, as a class, like those shown 
on the stage or in the pictures of the funnv papers. Neither is 
there wanting ability and culture, and of originality of thought 
and expression there is a great deal. 




In the Dooryard 



XIV. IHK FARM ^ ^ 

DAY 1!V DAY « « ~ ^ 

On the liills arc many pleasant vilhii^es and numerous thrifty 
farms. There are also, it must be acknowledged, on the scant- 
treed and thin-grassed hilltops, many villages that approach folorn- 
ncss ; and everywhere through this country are the scattered 
homes which by their shabbiness make it plain that the struggle 
for existence is either not vigorously battled, or is against too great 
odds. Most of the inhabitants live without bodily discomfort ; 
though close economy is required among the poorer families the 
year through, and luxuries, and very many of the ordinary refine- 
ments and pleasures of life, are entirely absent. Their food is 
almost wholly produced on the farm itself ; but in an intelligent 
household this does not mean aught that is unwholesome, or any 
stinting in quantity. A meat-cart makes weekly visits in the 
summer to such families as can afford to patronize it, but in win- 
ter does not get far out of the villages. Pigs are raised on every 
farm, and on most a beef creature is occasionally killed. While 
cold weather lasts, the meat not needed for immediate use can be 
packed away in snow, and kept fresh till sirring sets in. During 
the summer months the farm-folk dei)end on the })ickled hams and 
salt pork they have laid away, and the beef they have corned or 
dried, and an occasional salt codfish they have bought at the stoi'C. 
Then sometimes on a Sunday an old hen from the family flock 
is served u]). leaked beans is a standard dish. Graham flour is 
largely used in cooking for the sake of economy. Doughnuts ap- 
pear frequently, and cider apple-sauce is a familiar relish, while pie 
and tea are apt to be regarded as essentials at each meal. In the 
more prosperous families, when the people are not penurious, and 
the housewife is intelligent and a good cook, the fare, though in 
many ways still simple, is yet so varied and good antl well-served 
that it is thoroughly enjoyable to any one not chronically cross- 
grained and dyspeptic. The hill country itself, with all its rugged- 
ness, is charming ; and it has made a grand record in the men and 
women that have uone forth from its rockv farms. True there 



21 ^ 



««A BOOK OF COUNTRY 
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 



aie plenty more who still long to go. It is not at all certain ihey 
would gain by it. ["'or, as Thackeray says in the final sentences 
of "Vanity Fair," "Which of us has his desire, or, having it, is 
satisfied .-* " 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



llill I I L II' I I II I lillllllllll liiill I 

014 042 628 3 • 



